


































































































































Class JP 5a ?.3. 
Book• 3-X — 

Guipglit _ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
















t 






v 

















I 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


By O. W. COURSEY 
For other books by this Author, 
see the last article in this 
Volume. 


(Third Edition.) 



Published by 

THE EDUCATOR SUPPLY COMPANY 
Mitchell, South Dakota 



Copyright. 

1916 - 1917-1923 

By O. W. COURSEY 
(All rights reserved.) 



MAR -1 ’23 

© CU 6 986 5 8 V\'- c ' 


Dedicated to 
MY THREE SONS 


Ptoiglyt 


itatoton 


William 


May you often go into the Library, and there, 
with Mr. Longfellow: 

“Read from some humble poet 
. Whose songs gush from his heart 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer.’’ 



PREFACE 

The History of South Dakota has been written, 
at various times, during the past twenty years, 
separately, by Armstrong, Robinson, Kerr, Bach- 
elder, Foster, Ransom, Kingsbury, Johnson, and 
Smith; the Civics, by Smith and Young, Ross, John¬ 
son, and Ransom; the Geology, by Todd, O’Harra, 
Lewis, Perisho, and Ward; the Geography, by 
Beadle, Johnson, Perisho, Visher, and by Sey¬ 
mour; a History, by titles, of the published books of 
the state has been made by Robinson in his Historical 
Reports, and a similar list has been compiled by 
Kerr. But the Literature, proper, of the state has 
never before been written. The nearest approach 
to it is a book of “Dakota Rhymes,” compiled by 
Wenzlaff and Burleigh; but, as suggested by the 
title, their book contains verse only, while, as a mat¬ 
ter of fact, much of our best literature and many of 
our ablest writers are found wholly in the field of 
prose. However, they deserve great credit for col¬ 
lecting the material for their book, otherwise many 
of our best poetical productions might have been 
lost forever. 

The compilation of this book has necessitated 
hundreds of written communications and thousands 
of miles of travel. It covers a period of forty years, 
and it took a great many years to collect it. 

Many of our pioneer writers are dead; others 
have scattered across the continent; few remain. 
To collect their photographs, their biographies and 
their literary productions; and then to classify this 
material and decide what is really worth preserving 


as Literature—for Literature, proper, presupposes 
merit—has entailed an amount of work that the 
reader of this volume can never know. Over 2,000 
poems were read and rejected, in addition to those 
that have been herein preserved. About 100 
speeches, covering a great variety of subjects, were 
collected from old newspaper files and other sources. 
These were read and carefully sifted in selecting 
the material for Section II of the book. What has 
been kept of both poetry and prose has been re¬ 
tained either to show the author’s style or else be¬ 
cause it seemed to have some special value. 

• Inasmuch as this book has now gone to its Third 
Edition, it is evident that my efforts have not been 
in vain. To all those who assisted me, I hereby 
acknowledge my profoundest gratitude; but more 
especially to Mrs. J. W. McCarter, of Bowdle; Mrs. 
Helen D. Potter, of Canning; Miss Edla Laurson, 
City Librarian of Mitchell; Mrs. Demah Flavin, of 
Sturgis; Professor Clyde Tull, formerly instructor 
in English at Dakota Wesleyan University; Profes¬ 
sor George H. Durand, instructor in English, Yank¬ 
ton College; and Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Gossage, of 
Rapid City. 


O. W. Coursey. 


! CONTENTS 

Section I 

POETS AND POETRY 

Brown, Mortimer Crane . 18 

Bagstad, Anne E. 26 

Biggar, H. Howard . 32 

Butler, Daisy Dean . 40 

Clark, Charles Badger . 48 

Clover, Sam T. 56 

Carr, Robert V. 64 

Chamberlain, Will . 70 

Crawford, Captain Jack ...78 

Crothers, Ralph . 84 

Dickinson, Mrs. Almira J. 90 

Garland, Hamlin . 98 

Hanson, Joseph Mills . 106 

Harrington, Nellie .116 

Holmes, Charles E. 124 

Lawton, Charles Bracy .132 

Martin, Mary Frances . 138 

Rivola, Mrs. Flora Shufelt .144 

Robinson, Doane .152 

Sloan, Mrs. Emily .160 

Tatro, Mrs. Mae Phillips .166 

Van Dalsem, Henry .174 

Wells, Rollin J.182 

Wenzlaff, Gustav G.194 

Miscellaneous .203 

Abel, E. L.203 

Aisenbrey, C. J.204 

Beaumont, A. E.205 

Brown, W. E.206 

Burleigh, Andrew F.208 

Burleigh, B. W.208 

Caldwell, Arthur L. 210 

Chamberlain, Beulah .211 



































(Contents Continued) 


Creed, C. H.212 

Crill, Louis N. .215 

Dillman, Will ...216 

Gove, Mrs. E. A. 217 

Hagman, Mrs. Bernice ..’...219 

Hall, Fremont .220 

Johnson, Willis E.222 

Lindberg, John C.223 

McMurtry, W. J.224 

Pyle, Nellie .224 

Richardson, Mabel K. 225 

Sprague, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie .225 

St. John, C. G.230 

Stillwell, Ethel Brooks .232 

Swift, Flora M.234 

Tre Fethren, E. B.235 

Van Camp, George 0.236 

Van Campten, Fannie E. 238 

Van Cise, Edwin . 239 

Wentworth, Frank M.241 

White, Dr. Gay C...242 

Pioneer Songs: .244 

Little Old Sod Shanty .244 

Dakota Comes . 246 

Dakota Land .247 

Section II 

ORATORS AND ORATORY: ..249 

Branson, O. L.250 

Conklin, Gen. S. J.260 

Crawford, Coe 1.264 

Harmon, T. A.273 

Jones, Dr. Hilton Ira . 280 

Kemple, R. L. ..288 

McFarland, J. G.294 

Miser, Walter G.300 

Parmley, J. W.306 





































(Contents Continued) 

Perisho, E. C.314 

Sterling, William B.320 

Section III 

PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS: .327 

Novelists . 327 

Boyles and Bingham .328 

Deland, Charles E.332 

Lillibridge, Will .334 

Norvell, J. E.336 

Tull, Jewell Bothwell .'..338 

White, Stewart Edward ...340 

Miscellaneous: 

Byrne, Mrs. Emma .1...342 

Elliott, H. Louise .342 

Micheaux, Oscar .343 

Historians ...345 

Historians . 345 

Biographers .351 

Journalists: . 352 

Political ...353 

Religious .,.353 

Educational .354 

Descriptive . 354 

Agricultural .356 

General .356 

Scientific Writers . 359 

Geology . 359 

Music .363 

Hillbrand, Dr. E. K.368 

Johnson, Willis E.370 

Murray, Dr. O. E.372 

Money . t .379 

Religion .379 

Sociology . 382 

Thoms, Craig ...382 

Text Book Authors: ......387 

Agriculture .;.387 





































(Contents Continued) 

Americanization.387 

Argumentation.388 

Art . 388 

Bookkeeping .388 

Business .388 

Chemistry .389 

Civics .389 

Economics .390 

English . 390 

Geography .391 

German .391 

History .392 

Law . 392 

Literature . 393 

Mathematics . ,.,.393 

Mechanics .394 

Medicine .394 

Pedagogy . 394 

Psychology . 395 

Spelling . 395 

Typewriting .396 

Compilers .396 

Translators .397 

Essayists .,.400 

Critics . 405 

Dramatists . 408 

Sketch Writers .409 































INDEX 


Abel, E. L.203 

Aisenbrey, C. J.204 

Aldrich, Irwin .357 

Allen W. C.356 

Armstrong, Mose K.345 

Arnold, W. A. 393 

Atwater, W. D.343 

Austin, Henry W.405 

Bachelder, G. A.345 

Bagstad, Anna E.26, 397 

Baldwin, F. W.393 

Baldwin, Geo. P. 348 

Beaumont, A. E.205 

Beadle, W. H. H. 391 

Bennett, Helen Marie .384 

Bennett, Granville .396 

Biggar, H. Howard . 32 

Bigelow, Anson H.393 

Bingham, Mrs. Kate .328 

Bishop, Emily M.393, 394 

Bowen, Wheeler S.356 

Boyles, Virgil D.328 

Branson, O. L.250 

Brigham, Arthur .387 

Brown, James .396 

Brown, Mortimer Crane . 18 

Brown, W. E.206 

Burns, J. H.;. 343 

Burleigh, Andrew F.208 

Burleigh, B. W.208, 393 

Butler, Daisy Dean . 40 

Byrne, Mrs. Emma .342 

Caldwell, C. C... 393 

Caldwell, E. W. 396 

Caldwell, Arthur L.210 

Carr, Robert V. 64 

Carpenter, F. R.362 

Carruth, Hayden .62, 343 

Case, Francis H.380 

Catlin, Mrs. Stella H. . 344 

Champlin, Manley .„..,387 

Chamberlain, Will . 70 












































Chamberlain, Beulah .... 

Christol, Carl . 

Clark, Charles Badger 

Clevenger, G. H. 

Clover, Sam T. 

Conklin, S. J. 

Coolbaugh, M. F. 

Cook, Wm. A. 

Cory, F. J. 

Cotes, J. W. 

Cox, Mary A. 

Coursey, O. W. 

Crawford, Coe I.. 

Crawford, Captain Jack 

Creed, C. H. 

Crothers, Ralph .. 

Danforth, E. S. 

Davenport, H. J. 

Day, Charles M. 

DeLand, Chas. E. 

Derome, J. A. 

Dickinson, Almira, J. ... 

Dillman, Will . 

Douglas, Mrs. 

Doyle, J. H. 

Dunham, N. J. 

Durand, Geo. H. 

Dvorak, J. A. 

Dye, Eva .. 

Ehle, M. A. 

Elliott, H. Louise . 

Elliott, Geo. B. 

Ellis, J. S. 

Erdman, Henry . 

Foght, H. W. 

Forsyth, A. 

Fort, Lyman M. 

Foster, James . 

French, Louise . 

Fulton, C. H. 

Gage, Harry M. 

Garland, Hamlin . 

Gardner, William . 


.211 

. 349 

. 48 

.362 

. 56 

.260 

.!.363 

.395-396 

. 353 

. 366 

.388 

343, 350, 352, 381, 392, 393, 397, 412 

.264, 351 

. 78 

.212 

. 84 

...353 

.390 

.353, 356 

.332, 347, 392 

.353, 379 

.' 90 

.216 

.344 

. 395 

.349 

.352 

.366 

.344 

.363 

.342 

.353 

. 343 

.387 

.347, 350, 392, 395 

.362 

.388 

..‘..345 

.397 

.362, 363 

.384 

. 98 

.351 













































Gates, Eleanor. 

Geddes, Herbert . 

Gilman, Stella . 

Gossage, Mrs. Alice - 

Gove, Mrs. E. A.. 

Grabill, E. W. 

Grigsby, Melvin . 

Guhin, M. M. 

Hackett, Chas. F. 

Hagman, Mrs. Bernice 

Haines, A. L. 

Halstad, Murat . 

Halladay, J. F. 

Hall, Fremont . 

Hanson, Jos. Mills . 

Haney, Dick .. 

Harmon, T. A. 

Harrington, Nellie . 

Harris, Kenneth . 

Hartman, M. L. 

Hayes, John . 

Hazard, J. C. 

Hebert, Frank . 

Herreid, Chas. N. 

Hendrickson, Henry . 

Hippie, John . 

Hillbrand, E. K. 

Hoffman, H. 0..... 

Holmes, Chas. E. 

Holley, Mrs. Frances C. 

Holman, John . 

Hopkins, Cyril G. 

Houston, H. S. 

Hoyt, Cassie R. 

Johnson, Willis E. 

Jones, A Sheridan . 

Jones, Hilton Ira . 

Jones, S. R. 

Jones, W. Franklin . 

Kemple, R. L. 

Keer, R. F. 

Kieser, Paul . 

Kingsbury, George . 


.344 

.343 

...........344 

.,.357 

.217 

.364 

.352 

.387, 394, 401 

.*.359 

.219 

.361 

.364 

.353, 358 

.220 

.106, 409 

.393 

.273 

.116 

.345 

.363 

. 397 

.393, 397 

.348 

. 409 

.388 

.353, 359 

.368 

.362 

.124 

.348 

.392 

.345, 387 

.351 

.394 

222, 346, 370, 390, 391, 392, 395 

.246 

.280 

.361 

.394, 395 

.288 

.346, 391, 392 

.356 

.346 













































Knox, J. S. 

Larson, C. 

Lawton, Chas. Bracy .... 
Levinger, Rabbi Lee .... 

Lillibridge, Will . 

Lilley, George . 

Lindberg, J. C. 

Logan, J. D. 

Longstaff, John . 

Loomis, Clarence . 

Loucks, H. L. 

Lusk, W. C. 

Lyles, Chas. S. .. 

Maquire, Horatio N. 

Martin, Mary Frances 

Marble, Wm. 

McCain, Lynn P. 

McCaffree, Chas. 

McCune, George S. 

McDaniel, A. B. 

McFarland, James . 

McKay . 

McMurtry, W. J. 

McNamara, Harry . 

Meek, Mary J. 

Melville, A. B. 

Micheaux, Oscar . 

Mill, C. N. 

Miser, Walter G. 

Moad, Altha and Ethel 

Moody, G. C. 

Murdy, Robert L. 

Murray, 0. E. 

Nicholson, Thomas . 

Norvell, J. E. 

O’Harra, C. C. 

O’Leary, Dennis . 

Olmstead, W. B. 

Orcut, I. H. 

Osbon, 0. M. 

Over, W. H. 

Oxtoby, F. B. 

Parmley, J. W.— 


.388 

.387 

.132 

.380 

.334 

.393 

223, 390, 393, 397, 408 

.364 

.358 

.365 

.379 

.353 

..384 

.344 

.138 

.366 

.392 

. 357 

.381, 398 

.361 

.294 

.387 

.324, 350 

.344 

.390 

.396 

.343 

.394 

......300 

.394 

. 396 

.394 

.372 

.380 

.336, 381 

.359, 360. 362, 363 

.353 

.381 

.394 

.354 

..361 

.„.381 

.306 














































Patterson, Herbert . 





..396 

Perisho, E. C. . 



.314, 

361, 

391 

Peterson, H. Jonas . 





..384 

Phillips, W. H. ri. 





.393 

Pierce, G. A. .. 





.344 

Powers, W. H. 





.352 

Price, C. H. 





.396 

Pryor, Hugh C. 





.396 

Putney, Effie . 



CO 

CO 

347, 

392 

Putnam, L. R. 





.367 

Pyle, Nellie . 





.224 

Ransom, F. L. . 



.346, 

390, 

392 

Ransom, Ida P.. 





.397 

Realf, James . 





.405 

Reese Bros., J. B. and H. B. ... 





.351 

Richards, R. 0. 





.393 

Richardson, Mabel K. 




.235, 

366 

Rivola, Mrs. Flora Shufelt . 





.144 

Robinson, Doane . 

...152, 345, 

346, 

351, 

392, 

405 

Robinson, L. W.. 





.353 

Rodee, H. A. . 





.344 

Ronald, W. R. 





.356 

Rosen, Peter .. 





.348 

Ross, J. A.. 





.390 

Runner, J. J. 





.363 

Sabin, Edwin . 





.343 

Sanders, John G. 





.353 

Schaber, Robert . 





.353 

Schlosser, George . 





.353 

Scott, Mrs. Kate . 




.388, 

393 

Seymour, A. H. 





.391 

Shannon, Peter C. 





.396 

Shaw, Fred . 





.386 

Sheldon, Stewart .. 





.350 

Shepard, James H. 





.389 

Sloan, Mrs. Emily . 






Smith, George M. . 

....346, 354, 

389, 

391, 

394, 

406 

Snoody, J. H. 






Sprague, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie . 




.225, 

409 

St. John, C. G.. 






Sterling, Will B. .. 






Stewart, Robert . 






Stillwell, Mrs. Ethel Brooks .... 


















































Stockton, F. T... 

Stone, Matilda Woods . 

Stubbins, T. A. 

Surbeck, Mrs. J. S. 

Swift, Flora M. 

Tallent, Anna D. 

Tatro, Mrs. Mae Phillips 

Thoms, Craig S. 

Thompson, Tollef B. 

Tinan, Clate . 

Todd, J. *E. 

Toepelman, W. C. 

Travis, Walter . 

Tre Fethren, E. B. 

Tripp, Bartlett . 

Tull, Jewell Both well . 

Van Benthuysen, S. D. 

Van Camp, George O. 

Van Campten, Fannie E. 

Van Cise, Edwin . 

Van Dalsem, Henry . 

Vermilyea, Stanley . 

Visher, S. S. 

Ward, Freeman . 

Wardall, Ruth . 

Warren, E. H. 

Way, S. X. 

Weir, Samuel . 

Wells, R. J. 

Wellington, Raynor A. 

Wenzlaff, Gustav G. 

Wenz, Alfred . 

Wentworth, Frank M. 

White, Gay C. 

White, Stewart Edward .. 

White, W. 

Whitefield, Amelia A. 

Wieland, C. R. 

Wilkinson, H. S. 

Willey, E. H. 

Willis, H. E. 

Williams, Lida . 

Wilson, R. A. 


... 384 

.344 

.344 

.344 

.234 

.348 

.166 

.361, 381, 382 

.405 

..344 

.359, 360 

.362 

.353 

.235 

.396 

.338, 409 

.396 

.236 

.238 

.239 

. 174 

.365 

.:....361, 391 

.361, 362 

.4.387 

.353 

.353 

.380 

.182, 366, 408 

.347 

194, 393, 395, 397, 409 

.405 

.241 

.242 

.340 

.387 

.384 

.361 

.381 

..*.358 

.392 

.388 

.361 














































IN A LIBRARY 


Here ages wait to speak and dream with thee * 

Of ancient pomp and pride forever gone, 

And harps are hung, whose silver strings can free 
The souls of those who sang at song’s first dawn. 

Here paths await the pressure of thy feet, 

And seas of thought the shadow of thy sail, 
Whereon thy distant voyaging may meet 

Thought’s farthest night where stars and pilot fail. 

Here wait the guides of ages for thy call; 

With Dante, walk the white abyss of hell; 

With Shakespeare, watch in Macbeth’s banquet hall; 
With Milton, hear the voice of Gabriel. 

Here may the burdens of thy daily life, 

As at a minster gate, be laid aside; 

Thy soul be shut from sounds of human strife, 

Thy mind and heart be charmed and beautified. 

—Arthur Wallace Peach. 



SECTION I 


POETS AND POETRY 

The Territory of Dakota was not formally or¬ 
ganized until 1861. It was eleven years later before 
the first railroad entered the region. A lack of rail¬ 
roads, and the fact that numerous bands of hostile 
Indians still roamed the plains, made development 
slow. The Territory was divided into North and 
South Dakota and statehood established in 1889. 

Inasmuch as the early pioneers were fraught 
with excessive hardships, early songs of the Dakota 
plains are not numerous; yet, during this formative 
period, a few writers gained recognition. The 
stronger part of our literature has, however, been 
produced during statehood. 

For so young a state, South Dakota has pro¬ 
duced an abnormally large number of literary people. 
Historically, its authors divide themselves into 
two classes, to-wit: territorial writers and state¬ 
hood writers. Then these two classes divide them¬ 
selves into poets and prose writers. But this his¬ 
torical division could not be maintained in the prep¬ 
aration of this volume, because the works of several 
of our best territorial writers lap over into our 
statehood. Then, too, many of them might very 
properly be classified either as poets or as prose 
writers, for they have excelled in both fields of lit¬ 
erary endeavor. 



Mortimer Crane Brown 

Biographical —Born, Westmoreland, N. Y., September 11, 
1857. Educated in the rural schools of ISIew York and Iowa. 
Went to Iowa in 1867. Came to Dakota in 1879. Settled in 
Lincoln County. Married Miss Alma Cleveland, of Water¬ 
loo, Iowa, September 18, 1884. Father of three children— 
one girl and two boys. Farmed and taught school until 1892. 
Sold out; bought White Lake Wave, a weekly newspaper at 
White Lake, this state. Sold out in 1902. Moved to Sioux 
Falls. Associated with the Commercial News, a monthly 
trade journal, for one year. Identified with Sioux Falls Daily 
Press, 1903-08. Purchased Spearfish Enterprise. Sold out 
in 1916. Moved to Arizona. 







MORTIMER CRANE BROWN 

As a poet, Mortimer Crane Brown takes high 
rank among the early writers of our state. He be¬ 
longs to both literary epochs—territorial and state 
—for his pen has been active for over a third of a 
century. 

The meter of his verse is most perfect, and his 
prairie songs possess a music that is delightful. His 
vocabulary is broad; and, with singular ease, he in¬ 
variably selects from it the right word with which 

to complete his rhymes. 

Although Brown’s musings cover a wide range 
of thought and varying sentiment, he is. neverthe¬ 
less, first of all, a descriptive poet. The coloring of 
his description is very artistic, and he weaves into 
it a lofty sentiment that is inspirational in the ex¬ 
treme. What could be prettier as descriptive poetry 
than his two following selections? 

SYLVAN LAKE 

Calm, placid mirror of the skies, 

Safe guarded by thy rocky walls, 

In tranquil sleep thy blossom lies, 

Or, sighing, gently heaves and falls. 

The stern gray rocks that grandly lift 
Their furrowed faces high in air 
To where the sun-kissed vapors drift, 

Smile down upon thee, sleeping there. 


20 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


The tall, dark pines, thy henchmen good, 
Close to thy dancing ripples press, 

Or bow their heads in pensive mood 
To whisper of thy loveliness. 

Fair Sylvan Lake! No tempests sweep 
Across thy doubly-guarded breast; 

In calm content thy beauties sleep, 

A haven of untrammeled rest. 


BEAUTIFUL BIG STONE 

When from the burdens and toil of the day 
Mortals, aweary, would wander away, 

Shake from their spirits the mantle of care, 
Seeking for freedom, as birds in the air, 
Gladly they turn to thy restful retreat, 

Where sister states in sweet unity meet, 

Bathe in thy waters and float on thy breast, 
Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West! 

Light on thy bosom the water-fowl glides, 

Deep in thy waters the finny shoal hides, 
Tempting the sportsman his skill to employ, 
Crowning each day with its measure of joy; 
Softly re-echo from forest and shore 

Puff of the steamer and plash of the oar, 
Bearing glad hearts on a pleasure-bound quest— 
Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West! 

Here gentle Nature communes with the soul, 
Murmuring low in the billows that roll, 
Singing sweet songs in the whispering trees, 

Lisp of the ripple and sigh of the breeze, 
Smoothing the wrinkle and bringing again 
Sunshine and youth to the spirits of men; 

All who are weary thou givest them rest, 
Beautiful Big Stone, the Gem of the West! 



POETS AND POETRY 


23 


Poets differ as to the season of the year in 
which they sing. Some awaken with hum of the 
bees and confine themselves to spring-time melodies. 
Others find their inspiration in the green hue of 
June. A few of them chant only in harvest time. 
Many begin to sing when “The melancholy days 
have come.” Ocassionally one of them finds his 
only enchantment in the falling of the soft, downy 
snow-flakes of mid-winter. 

From this standpoint, Brown is a noted excep¬ 
tion. He finds poetic cheer from January on through¬ 
out the seasons to January again. Equally at home 
in all seasons of the year, his inspiration seems to be 
continuous. The various moods of seasonable poets 
are all combined in him. His is the heart universal; 
his, the poetic genius complete. 

One’s viewpoint of Brown becomes more com¬ 
prehensive when he clusters together the poet’s sev¬ 
eral selections that pertain to the seasons of the 
year, arranges them in a logical sequence, and then 
reviews them collectively. Let us begin with his: 


FARMIN’ IN DAKOTA 

When old Winter gets his back broke an’ begins ter lose his 
grip, 

An’ the north end of airth’s axle toward the sun begins ter 
tip; 

When the butter-ducks go whizzin’ to their summer feedin’ 
grounds, 

An’ the medder-lark salutes us with the old familiar sounds; 



22 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


When the grass begins ter nestle at the news the breezes 
bring, 

An’ the prairie all around us wakens at the touch o’ Spring) 
O’ its then I like to hustle, when the day begins ter crack, 
An’ go farmin’ in Dakota—when the birds come back. 

In the hush of airly mornin’, when the stars are still in sight, 
An’ the fleecy mists sail upward in the dim uncertain light, 
Every sound that breaks the quiet seems ter let a feller know 
That the seed-time is a-comin’ an’ it’s time ter make things 
go. 

The honk o’ north-bound ganders comes a-floatin’ from the 
blue, 

An” the grouse fill in the chorus with a lusty “bim-bum-boo!’ 
An’ the bullfrogs tease a feller with their everlastin’ clack, 
To go farmin’ in Dakota—when the birds come back. 

When the pussies on the willers er’a-swellin’ fit ter bust, 

An’ th’ win’ flowers poke their bunnits through the hillock’s 
dingy crust; 

When the smell o’ burnin strawstacks is a-floatin in the air, 
An’ the prairie fire it’s beacons is a-lightin’ everywhere, 
Then the instinct prods a feller ter prepare for time o’ need, 
An’ he longs ter tear the ground up an’ fling wide the golden 
seed; 

So he hooks his team tergether, o’er his shoulder slings a 
sack, 

An’ goes farmin’ in Dakota—when the birds come back. 

In the winter time a feller kinder seems ter lose his hold, 

An’ his blood gits thick an’ sluggish, till he ’lows he’s gettin 
old. 

He’ll poke around among his cattle, from the haystack to the 
barn, 

With a feelin’ that he’d kinder like ter jump the whole 
consarn; 

But when his lazy nostrils get a sniff o’ cornin’ spring, 

An’ his eyes light on the shudder of a wild goose on the 

wing, 


POETS AND POETRY 


23 


O’ it sets his blood a-prancin’, an’ he longs ter leave his 
shack 

An’ go farmin’ in Dakota—when the birds come back. 

O, the independent feelin’ every poineer hez known, 

When he sets his plow a-diggin’ in the ground that’s all his 
own! 

’Tis the way ter Nature’s store-house, all her treasures ter 
unfold, 

An’ the man that keeps it punchin’ never fails ter get the 
gold; 

So while many er a-kickin’ at the way the world is run, 

Pll plod onward in the furrow, through the shadder an’ the 
sun, 

Quite content ter trust the Giver, at whose hand we never 
lacl^, 

An’ keep farmin, in Dakota—when the birds come back. 


Following this in natural sequence, comes his 
“Spring/’ a dainty little melody; “April,” “May,” 
“On The Hay,” “After Harvest,” “Autumn Dreams,” 
“September,” “October,” “Indian Summer,” “Fall,” 
“When The Snow Is On The Prairie,” and “An¬ 
other Chance.” Two of these follow in full: 

ON THE HAY 

Oh, very far back in the pathway of life 

In the days yet untarnished by trouble and strife, 

There are scenes that shine bright in my memory yet, 
There are pleasures and pains I never forget. 

I remember the days when a boy, on the farm, 

When all things were touched by youth’s magical charm, 
When I wandered at will ’neath the whispering trees, 

And at pleasure communed with the birds and the bees. 



24 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Tet e’en in those bright days some sorrows I knew, 

Some dark tints to soften life’s radiant hue; 

Some hope unfulfilled, some desire unattained, 

Oft would darken my eyes to the joys that remained, 

And then, when the world seemed to mock at my grief, 

To seclusion I turned in my quest for relief, 

From the source of my sorrow stole softly away, 

To crawl up in the barn and lie down on the hay. 

There, safe from derision, unseen and unheard, 

New thoughts and ambitions my youthful heart stirred, 
As prone ’neath the long, sagging rafters I lay 
And drank in the scent of the fresh-garnered hay. 

While through the wide door came the stir of the leaves, 
And the swallows’ quick notes as they toiled ’neath the 
eaves 

A balm from above seemed to fall on my heart, 

And a feeling of infinite peace to impart. 

And now, ’mid the toils and temptations of life, 

When every new day with its danger is rife, 

W T hen with each seeming pleasure some sorrow is found, 
And the snares of the spoiler lie thickly around, 

My spirit turns backward in memory sweet 

To those blessed hours spent in peaceful retreat; 

And I long from earth’s battles to scurry away, 

Crawl up in the barn and lie down on the hay. 


WHEN THE SNOW IS ON THE PRAIRIE 
When the snow is on the prairie 
N’ the drift is in the cut. 

An’ life gets a trifle dreary 

Joggin’ in the same ole rut. 

Nothin’ like a good ole fiddle 

Takes the wrinkles out o’ things. 
There’s the chirp o’ larks an’ robins 
In the twitter of the strings. 

When the whizzin’, roarin’ blizzard 
Is a shuttin’ out the day, 

An’ the balmy breath o’ summer 
Seems a thousand years away, 



POETS AND POETRY 


25 


You kin start the eaves a drippin’ 

With the tinklin’ of ’er strings. 

You km hear the water bubblin’ 

From a dozen different springs. 

Rub the bow across the resin, 

Twist the pegs an’ sound your A 

There’ll be bobolinks a clinkin’ 

When you once begin ter play. 

Bees’ll waller in the clover, 

Blossoms whisper in the sun, 

All the world a runnin’ over 

With the sunshine an’ the fun. 

Git the gals and boys together, 

Partners all for a quadrille: 

Cheeks aglow with frosty weather, 

Hearts that never felt a chill, 

Youth an’ music never weary— 

Though they meet in hall or hut— 

When the snow is on the prairie 
An’ the drift is in the cut. 

“Sashy by an’ s’lute yer pardners, 

Sashy back an’ how d’ye do!” 

Everybody’s feelin’ funny 

An’ the fiddle feels it too. 

Out o’ doors the storm may sputter, 

But within the skies are bright, 

Pansies peekin’ out, an’ butter¬ 
cups a bobbin’ in the light. 

O’ the joy ov healthful pleasure! 

O’ the trip ov tireless feet! 

While the fiddle fills each measure 
With its music soft and sweet; 

Glints ov sun the shadows vary, 

Though from out the world we’re shut, 

When the snow is on the prairie 
• An’ the drift is in the cut. 



Anna E. Bagstad 


biographical —Born on farm near Yankton, Feb. 27,1879. 
Parents, pioneers. They came to Dakota in 1867. She at¬ 
tended country school, and Yankton Academy. Began teach¬ 
ing when quite young. Spent 1900-01, Chicago, doing uni¬ 
versity work. Taught, Northland College, Ashland, Wis., 
1901-02. Next year attended Yankton college. Was gradu¬ 
ated in 1903 from the department of elocution and oratory, 
and won the state and inter-state oratorical contests. Took 
B. A. degree, Yankton, 1905. Principal Vermillion high 
school, 1905-06. Instructor history and German, Northland 
college, 1906. Went abroad, 1908. Toured Europe. Spent 
1910-11 Emerson College of Oratory, Boston. Instructor 
Aberdeen, S. D., Normal, three years. In 1915, removed to 
state of Oregon. 










ANNA E. BAGSTAD 


Miss Bagstad has written a number of good 
poems that have been published at various times. 
Among these are “Greeting and Farewell,” a tribute 
to Dr. G. W. Nash; “Magic,” “Bought and Paid For,” 
and “Voltaire.” Her place in the literature of the 
state will, however, rest largely on two poems, 
“What is Life,” and “A Fragment;” and upon her 
translation from the German of “The Sistine 
Chapel.” The two poems and the translation are 
given: 

WHAT IS LIFE 

A poet asked the question of a rose, 

As one fair day drew lingering to a close. 

Breathing the incense of her heart above 

She answered blushing: “Life—ah, life is love!” 

A songbird from his deep embowered nest 
Sang to the glories of the purpling west 

A song of gladness, pure, without alloy. 

The poet heard: “This life is only joy.” 

“And what say ye?”—this to the ants that low 
Beside his feet on busy errands go. 

A thousand-voiced reply from out the soil— 

And myraids caught the echo: “Life is toil.” 

Into the twilight wood the poet strayed 
And found within the solitude a maid; 

Waiting a skiff approaching o’er the stream, 

She murmured: “Life—oh, happy, happy dream!” 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


28 

Softly the darkness settles, and on high 
Myraids of stars begem the dusky sky. 

Faint whispers breathe ’twixt heaven and earth and sea, 
“Life is an everlasting mystery.” 

Now to the hermit’s cave the wanderer hied. 

He to the question wearily replied, 

Sighing, as low his wavering taper burned: 

“Life is a school where nothing can be learned.” 

The penitent—the midnight long since sped— 

Upon the wayside stones reclined his head. 

“How long,” he said, “how full of strife appears 
The pilgrimage through this dim vale of tears!” 

Celestial artists change from somber gray 
To rainbow tints the curtains of the day. 

Till at God’s bidding these are upward rolled 
And mortals view the morning’s court of gold. 

From each unfolding bud the shadows flee; 

Earth echoes with a living melody, 

And through the anthems of exulting birds 

There thrills a voice—the poet hears the words: 

“If even comes, O man, to find thee more 
Like to the great Ideal than before; 

If thou art nobler when this day is spent, 

Then hast thou lived; life is development.” 


A FRAGMENT 

Daylight that came upon the hills of Rome— 

Looking upon the city’s majesty 

And on the country’s loveliness without,— 

Saw hanging, pierced and bleeding on the cross 



POETS AND POETRY 


29 


A dying - saint; the first pale sun-ray smiled 
On youthful Julia’s face where agony 
Since yesternoon had held its cruel sway; 

Beamed on the form that once had burned with life, 
And burned with love for one that hung before 
Upon the cross; and for this love she died. 

A Roman youth returning from a scene 
Of mighty revel, wandering o’er the hills 
To cool his heated brow—where rested still 
The wild voluptuary’s laurel crown— 

Found himself face to face with her that hung 
Upon the cross. No more her countenance 
Bore trace of pain. The spirit as it rose 
To him she loved and died for, left a look 
Of triumph, holiness and joy and peace. 

And the young Roman gazed upon the face 
In its transfigured beauty till there rose 
Within his soul a high and holy fear, 

Thoughts of unknown and of eternal things— 

And underneath the pierced and bleeding feet 
in reverence he laid his withered crown. 

O holy Truth, the morning surely comes 
When Error, issuing from his nightly haunt, 

Crowned from the revel meets thee face to face. 

He finds thee bleeding, dying, crucified 
And yet Immortal. And thou shalt not be 
As some crushed martyr, but a conqueror. 

Through suffering made strong and sanctified. 

And when the glory of the dawning day 

Shines on thy face, God’s fear shall smite his heart 

And he shall lay his laurels at thy feet. 


30 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL 

(Translated fi’om the German.) 

In the dim and lofty chamber of the Sistine Chapel grand 

Sits the sculptor with the Bible clasped within his nervous 
hand: 

Michael Angelo the mighty, lost as in a waking dream; 

Near him one small lamp suspended sheds abroad a feeble 
gleam. 

He is speaking! Through the arches loud and long his words 
resound. 

Are these friends to listen to him by the midnight wrapped 
around? 

Now he speaks as if almighty powers hearkened at his word; 

Softly now, as if by human ears the cadenced tones were 
heard. 

“Five times, O Eternal Being! have I here encompassed thee; 

Five times have I thee surrounded with bold lines and 
tracery; 

I have clothed thee in a mantle, shining garments wrap thee 
round; 

I have given thee a body, such as in the Bible thou art 
found. 

“Here, from suns and ever onward to new suns I see thee fly; 

And thy hair, a fiery tempest, streams along the startled 
sky; 

But I paint thee in my canvass, toward man, thy erring child, 

One who stoops with tender yearning, patient, merciful, and 
mild. 


POETS AND POETRY 


31 


“Thus, with strength of nothingness, I, a man, have fashioned 
thee! 

Yet, lest of us twain the greater artist I aspire to be, 

Mold thou me! For I am swayed by human passions base 
and mean, 

Mold me in they righteous image, make me pure and, like 
thee, clean. 

■4 

“Long since, on creation’s morning, thou thy creatures built 
of clay; 

I would be a sterner metal, more enduring far than they; 

Therefore, Master, use thy hammer; chisel me to be thine 
own 

As a thing of beauty. Strike then, Sculptor God! I am the 
stone.” 



H. Howard Biggar 

Biographical —Born, Aurora, S. D. Graduated, Brook¬ 
ings high school, 1905; South Dakota State College, 1910. As¬ 
sistant Agronomist, S. D. S. C. Experiment Station, two 
years. Postgraduate work, Oregon Agricultural College, one 
year. Instructor in Agriculture, Northern Normal and In¬ 
dustrial School, Aberdeen, S. D., two years. Afterwards 
identified with Bureau of Plan Industry, Washington, D. C. 
Later associated with Stockmen’s Journal, Omaha, Nebr. 













H. HOWARD BIGGAR 


One of our young poets who suddenly found 

«•» 

himself and began to write with an inviting rhythm 
is H. Howard Biggar, a native born South Dakotan. 
Almost before his friends realized it he produced 
enough poems for a whole volume. They cover a 
wide range of subjects. Six of his shorter ones are 
given: 

HARNEY PEAK 

When yer feelin’ sad and lonely, 

And the days just drag along, 

When you’d give most all yer pleasure 
Fer a bit of laugh and song. 

When the clouds are hangin’ heavy, 

In the sky no brilliant streak, 

Mount a Rocky Mountain burro; 

Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 

When the friend you thought sincerest, 

Like a traitor proves untrue, 

When the shadows quickly gather, 

Hiding ev’ry tint and hue, 

Seek the trail that’s winding upward 
Where old Nature seems to speak, 

Mount a Rocky Mountain burro; 

Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 

And you’ll canter through the gulches 
Where the streams reflect the blue, 

And you’ll wander through the forest 
Where the sun is hid from view; 

Through the pine-clad peaks a trailin’ 

Where old Nature seems to speak, 

Mount a Rocky Mountain burro; 

Hit the trail fer Harney Peak. 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


THE SUNSET LAND 

Have you ever dreamed in your fondest dreams 
Of the land where the sunsets die? 

Where you catch the gleams of the silv’ry streams 
’Neath the blue of a cloudless sky? 

Where the waters leap to the canyons deep 
And the pines in their splendor stand, 

Then I know for you, twas a vision true 
For you dreamed of the Sunset Land. 

Have you ever sighed at the close of day, 

As you gazed from the open door, 

For a glimpse of the peaks where Nature speaks 
For the sound of the ocean’s roar? 

Have you ever thought of a blissful spot 
With the touch of an artist’s hand? 

Then I know for you, ’twas a longing true 
For you longed for the Sunset Land. 

Have you ever paused at the dawn of day 
When the old world floods with light? 

And sighed for the place where the geysers play 
And the eagle wings its flight? 

Where the ice-fields glare in the cooling air 
And the tide-wave sweeps the sand. 

Then I know your quest was the golden west 
And you sighed for the Sunset Land. 


THE WORLD’S OUT-OF-DOORS 

’Tis joy to ride o’er the grassy plains 
And follow the wild stampede, 

To rest at night ’neath the star’s pale light 
By the side of your faithful steed; 

There’s health in the chase for the wily game 
And joy in the sport that thrills, 

As you listen at morn for the huntsman’s horn 
And canter away to the hills. 



POETS AND POETRY 


35 


There are forests vast where I fain would roam, 
There are mountains with caps of snow, 

There are canyons steep where the waters leap 
To the chasms so far below; 

And whether we ride o’er the billowy plains 
Or sail o’er the surging sea, 

There’s joy in the quest for the life that’s best, 
The life that is wild and free. 

I love the scent of the towering pines, 

The gleam of the heaving seas, 

The tints that glow when the sun is low, 

The life that is wild and free. 

I love to stand by the cascade’s brink 
Where the water in splendor pours, 

And catch the spell of the throbs that swell 
From the heart of the world’s outdoors. 


THE LAND OF THE WEST 

I see in my dreams oftentimes as I rest, 

The peaks where the snow-caps are glowing, 

And I hear the dull roar of the waters that pour 
In the land where the rivers are flowing. 

I list and I hear the clear beckoning call 
Of the woods and the mountains—and then 
I am gripped by the spell—there’s a feeling of—well 
I just wish I were out West again. 

I sit by the hearth where the embers are bright 
And they crackle a message so cheery, 

There’s a hush in the street and there’s no one to greet, 
And the world seems so lonely and dreary. 

But I drift far away, where the cataracts play, 

I am lost in the grandeur—and then 
There’s a spell I can’t tell or express very well, 

But I wish I were out West again. 



36 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


I hear in my dreaming, the sound of the sea, 

Where the breakers are roaring and crashing, 

In the midst of the deep, where the ships proudly sweep, 
And the waters are foaming and dashing. 

On the hurricane deck, we are off—soon a speck 
We are lost in the distance—and then 
I am gripped by the spell, there’s a feeling of—well 
I just wish I were out West again. 


THE CALL OF THE RANGE 

I have played my part in the bustling mart 
Where the restless thousands dwell, 

I’ve been swept aside by the restless tide 
Where they barter and buy and sell. 

I have fought my fight as I saw the right, 

In the battle with knavish men, 

And I cease my quest in the great unrest 
For the call of the range again. 

I have taken heed of the lust and greed 
Where the masters wrest the spoil, 

I have spent my time ’mid the dust and grime, 
In the ranks where the minions toil; 

And I loathe the glare and the strife and care 
And the surge of the human sea. 

So I’ve slung my pack and I’m going back, 

For the range is a-calling me. 

I can feel the thrill of the stampede still, 

As it swept o’er the prairies wide, 

I have caught the spell of the tales they tell 
At the close of the long day’s ride. 

I have known the zest of the boundless West 
Of the region of fearless men, 

So I cease my life in the city’s strife 
For the call of the range again. 



POETS AND POETRY 


37 


Men may spend their time ’mid dust and grime 
Where the great steel structures rise, 

But in sweet content, I will pitch my tent 
’Neath the blue of the rangeland skies; 

For there’s health I know where the sunsets glow, 
There’s a life that is wild and free, 

So Pve slung my pack and I’m going back 
Where the range is a-calling me. 


THE CALL OF THE WEST 

Quiet lakes, swift flowing rivers, creepy canyons, spouting geysers, 
tumbling cataracts, and at last the ocean hurling its Titanic forces 
against the rugged shores ;—prairies that stretch on and on, billowed with 
seas of grain at each recurring harvest time; peaks whose slopes are 
covered with pines and whose summits glow with perpetual white; groves 
of restful shade; forests of towering sequoias; orchards whose bloom of 
springtime fades into the crimson tints of autumn fruits ; mines of 
untold wealth ; hearth-fires that betoken peace and' plenty; hearts that 
are true and brave and bold. Unroll these scenes into a vast panorama, 
overarch it with a firmament of blue, sunlit by day, studded at night 
with twinkling stars, and you have a picture of the land that grips— 
the West. 

Have you ever leaped to saddle at the coming of the morn, 
Spoke the word that made the cayuse speed away, 

Roped a thousand pound “unruly,” felt the strain on saddle 
horn, 

Proved yourself at last a winner in the fray? 

Have you crossed the swirling waters when the streams were 
running high, 

Shared the dangers of the range and stood the test? 

Then I know your heart is longing for the land where sun¬ 
sets die. 

For the land that ever grips you—for the West. 


Have you ever climbed the summits, up beyond the timber 
line, 

Gazed upon the winding valleys far below? 

Have you sniffed the pungent odor of the tall and stately 
pine, 

Heard the breezes through the branches sighing low? 



38 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Have you hit the trail that leads you where your cares are 
all forgot, 

Flung yourself beneath the stars, to dream and rest? 

Then I know your thoughts are turning to some old familiar 
spot 

In the land that ever calls you—in the West. 

Have you seen the waters heaving, and the breakers flecked 
with foam, 

Felt the spray and heard the dull incessant roar? 

Have you seen the mighty forests where the sturdy rangers 
roam? 

Are you versed in all the wealth of woodland lore? 

Have you gazed on seas of yellow underneath the harvest sun, 

Billowed acres over-arched with skies of blue? 

Has the subtle spell of twilight gripped you when the day is 
done? 

Then I know you’re from the West—its calling you. 

Are you tired of lofty structures where they buy and sell and 
trade, 

Roar of traffic, whir of wheels and endless care? 

Would you wander in the region that a master hand has 
made, 

Shoot its rapids, tramp its trails and breathe its air? 

Are you sick of glare and glamor where the throngs of men 
are massed? 

Would you ride the range or gain a mountain’s crest? 

Then I know your heart is longing for the land you’ll seek 
at last. 

For the land that’s bound to grip you—for the West. 




Daisy Dean-Butler. 

Biographical —Born in Mower County, Minnesota. Came 
to Dakota in 1883. Educated in the rural schools of Minne¬ 
sota, and South Dakota; under private instructor, Jackson, 
Michigan; in Flandreau, South Dakota, and Brighton, Mich. 
High Schools; Madison State Normal, Ypsilanti (Mich.), 
Normal College and the University of Chicago. Taught 
school at Bethel, Mich., rural schools of South Dakota, and 
the public schools of Egan, Flandreau and Dell Rapids, South 
Dakota. Elected Supt. of Schools for Moody County, S. D. 
in 1902. Refused re-election in 1904. Married Frank W. 
Carr in 1905. One child, a daughter, was born to this union. 
Husband died Feb. 3, 1910. Re-elected Supt. of Schools in 
1908, and elected again in 1910. Teacher in the Madison 
Normal Training School. Married Dr. Butler in 1918. Home, 
Lake Preston. 




MRS. DAISY DEAN-BUTLER 


Mrs. Butler writes both prose and poetry, 
with equal skill and grace. But her reputation as 
a writer will, in all probability, rest upon her poeti¬ 
cal productions. She sings with a melody that is dis¬ 
tinctly feminine, and her musings revel in nature 
and immortality. 

While yet a mere girl, at the time of her gradu¬ 
ation, she was chosen poet of her class. In 1896 
she wrote many poems—the best of which is her 
“Education’s Everest.” However, in 1898, her poet¬ 
ical instinct began to give expression to more ma¬ 
ture poems, as is evidenced by her “Hidden Beau¬ 
ties.” The next year her “Good Night” appeared, 
and then nine years passed by. Training children 
in the schoolroom has given way to her own babe, 
standing at its mother’s knee. Maternal responsi¬ 
bilities, grief and patient thought, wean our poet 
from the rambling verses of childhood, which bor¬ 
dered on poetastry, so that, in 1908, we find her in 
deeper reflection; and from her poetical meditations 
of that year we have selected the following poems 
which illustrate most acceptably her easy style: 

TREASURES 

# 

Covered now by dust and cobwebs, 

In an attic chamber bare, 

Are some treasures far more precious 
Than much gold or jewels rare. 


42 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Would you view these treasures with me? 
Come and I will gladly show— 

None but I could tell you rightly— 

None but I their value know. 

See jou this most ancient rocker; 

Sit you down—’twas once my sires’; 

His descended from his father’s, 
Formerly from Devonshire. 

Note the richness of the carving— 

Quaint the beauty of design; 

Massive—strong—a fitting relic 
Of the Brittons of that time. 

See this heavy oaken cradle; 

This for generations three 

Rocked my mother’s mother’s kindred— 
Finally it served for me. 

Here’s a spinning wheel much valued 
As a relic of the day 

When we as a puny nation 

Dared defy King George’s sway. 

And my grandma often told me 
Of the spinning night and day, 

Done by mothers, wives and sisters 
For their heroes far away. 

♦ 

As this very wheel did service 
In that cause so just and right, 

You’ll not wonder at the value 
It acquires in my sight. 

Over ’gainst the wall you notice 
Hang a rusty sword and gun; 

Those my great grandsire carried 
Through the war from Lexington. 



POETS AND POETRY 


Right beneath these hangs a musket 
Much more modern in its make, 

This my father bravely carried 
In the war between the states. 

These and many other relics 

It would take too long to show;— 

I’ll not tax your patience further 
With my tales of “long ago.” 

You are young, and in the present 

Live your thought and hopes so dear; 

Mine, as ever do the ageds’ 

Oft revert to by-gone years. 

Here within this dusty attic 

With my treasures worn and old, 

Happy mem’ries hover round me 
Bringing peace and joy untold. 


SPRINGTIME IN DAKOTA 
Winter’s reign is nearly over— 

Many signs portend; 

Jack Frost’s frolicsome adventures 
Very soon must end. 

Broken are the icy fetters 
Of the lakes and streams; 

Feathered emigrants already 
Flying north are seen. 

Ducks and geese by scores and hundreds 
Flock to pond and lake, 

Where the mink and muskrat early 
Winter haunts forsake. 

Meadow larks and robin redbreasts 
Whistle loud, and sing, 

Telling that the winter’s over 
And again ’tis spring. 



44 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Soon the cotton-wood and maple 
and box-elder trees 

Put forth buds beneath whose cov’ring 
Lie the germs of leaves; 

Pussy willow soft and downy 
Hangs its tasseled head; 

Apple trees are gay and fragrant, 
Decked in pink and red. 


And upon the sunny hillsides, 
Pale anemones 

Meekly lift their starry faces 
To the kindly breeze; 

Soon the sturdy crocus follows 
Dressed in royal hue; 

Tulips clad in gorgeous raiment 
Southern breezes woo. 


Violets and johnny-jump-ups 
In the meadows hide; 

Also buttercups so golden 
Nestle side by side, 

Almost hidden by the grasses— 
There content to grow, 

Sweetly fragrant, in their corner 
Snugly sheltered so. 


Thus, the growing time advancing 
All God’s laws obey; 

Germ and bud and early blossom— 
For us night and day 
Follow each in perfect order 
Likewise follow they. 

Bringing hope and joy in living 
Now, and too, alway. 


POETS AND POETRY 


45 


OUR SUNSHINE STATE 
Not many years ago our state 
Lay unexplored prairie lands; 

To boundless areas, the gate; 

The home of nomad Indian bands, 
Who with each other fought to gain 
Supreme dominion of the plain. 


The herds of giant buffaloes— 

A common foe or prey they fought 
Through summers’ heat and winters’ snows— 
Supremacy as ever sought 
’Till from the East, a greater came 
To conquer, vanquish, rule and reign. 


The white man from the eastern shore, 
Had forged ahead o’er mount and plain, 
In quest eternal—wanting more 
Of pow’r, adventure, riches, fame. 

He reached our land—all else gave way— 
The Anglo-Saxon held full sway. 


But those who for adventure came, 

Or whom the craze for gold had won, 
Passed onward, seeking e’er the same 
In lands far toward the setting sun. 
Dakota’s commonwealth was formed 
By those who never labor scorned. 


The honest settler came to stay, 

And from the soil a living wrest; 
Unflinching facing night and day 
Those grimmest terrors of the west— 
The redskins with their stoic might 
And real or fancied wrongs to right. 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


But soon through treaty, peace was gained, 
The tomahawk no more was seen, 

And where most deadly war once reigned, 
The dove of Peace then slept serene, 
Dakota's sons, too, side by side 
In fellowship secure abide. 

Neat homes, now dot the prairie wide— 

The forts of sturdy sons of toil, 

With wife and children at their side, 
Staunch through the years of weary moil. 
Aye, proudly may we claim to be 
Descendents of Nobility. 

Dakota, won through warfare grim, 

Despite climatic terrors too, 

Of drought and blizzard—hail and wind, 
With confidence we look to you, 

For peace and plenty—aye, and more 
Are always found within thy door. 

Hurrah! then for the pioneers 

Who lead the way across the plain! 

Let ev’ry hill resound with cheers, 
Reverberating yet again, 

“Our Sunshine State”—“Thy Builders true 
All honor, praise, we give to you. 





Charles Badger Clark 

Biographical —Born, Albia, Iowa, Jan. 1, 1883. Brought 
to Dakota by his parents at three months of age. Educated 
in the public schools of Mitchell, Huron and Deadwood, and 
at Dakota Wesleyan University. At nineteen, went to Cuba. 
Remained two years. Came back and spent one year at 
Deadwood. Went to Arizona for four years. Employed on 
a cattle ranch twenty miles from Mexican border. During 
this experience wrote his cowboy lyrics. Returned to Hot 
Springs, S. D., in 1910. 


v 











CHARLES BADGER CLARK 
Conspicuous among Black Hills’ writers is 
Charles Badger Clark—known in literary circles as 
“Badger Clark.” Educated in the public schools of 
the state and at Dakota Wesleyan, Clark had a good 
foundation for his literary work. To this he added 
that widening influence that comes from travel, by 
sojourning for a year in Cuba and by spending four 
years as a cow-boy in Arizona. His poems, there¬ 
fore, while dealing largely with local affairs, have, 
nevertheless, a wide horizon. 

His cow-boy lyrics were first published by the 
old Pacific Monthly and other magazines. Later, 
twenty-two of them were collected and published in 
book form by the Richard G. Badger Co., Boston, 
under the caption “Sun and Saddle Leather.” From 
this volume two poems have been selected for re¬ 
publication The first one, entitled “A Cowboy’s 
Prayer,” is Clark’s best production. A weird piece 
of poetic imagery is his “Legend of Boastful Bill.” 
These two lyrics give one a general idea of his style. 

A COWBOY’S PRAYER 

(Written for Mother.) 

Oh Lord, I’ve never lived where churches grow. 

I love creation better as it stood 
That day You finished it so long ago 

And looked upon Your work and called it good. 

I know that others find You in the light 

That’s sifted down through tinted window panes, 
And yet I seem to feel You near tonight 
In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 


50 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well, 

That You have made my freedom so complete; 
That I’m no slave of whistle, clock or bell, 

Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. 

Just let me live my life as I’ve begun 
And give me work that’s open to the sky 
Make me a partner of the wind and sun, 

And I won’t ask a life that’s soft or high. 

Let me be easy on the man that’s down; 

Let me be square and generous with all. 

I’m careless sometimes, Lord, when I’m in town, 

But never let ’em say I’m mean or small! 

Make me as big and open as the plains, 

As honest as the hawse between my knees, 

Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, 

Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze! 

Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. 

You know about the reasons that are hid. 

You understand the things that gall and fret; 

You know me better than my mother did. 

Just keep an eye on all that’s done and said 
And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside, 

And guide me on the long, dim trail ahead 

That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. 

THE LEGEND OF BOASTFUL BILL 
At a roundup on the Gily, 

One sweet mornin’ long ago, 

Ten of us was throwed right freely 
By a hawse from Idaho. 

And we thought he'd go a beggin’ 

For a man to break his pride 
Till, a-hitchin’ up one leggin’, 

Boastful Bill cut loose and cried— 



POETS AND POETRY 


51 


“I’m a on’ry proposition for to hurt; 

I fulfill my earthly mission with a quirt; 

I kin ride the highest liver 

’Tween the Gulf and Powder River, 

And I’ll break this thing as easy as I’d flirt.” 

So Bill climbed the Northern Fury 
And they mangled up the air 
Till a native of Missouri 

Would have owned his brag was fair. 

Though the plunges kep’ him reelin’ 

And the wind it flapped his shirt, 

Loud above the hawse’s squealin’ 

We could hear our friend assert 

“I’m the one to take such rakin’s as a joke. 

Some one hand me up the makin’s of a smoke! 
If you think my fame needs bright’nin’ 

W’y, I’ll rope a streak of lightnin’ 

And I’ll cinch ’im up and spur ’im till he’s broke.” 

Then one caper of repulsion 
Broke that hawse’s back in two. 

Cinches snapped in the convulsion; 

Skyward man and saddle flew. 

Up he mounted, never laggin’, 

While we watched him through our tears, 

And his last thin bit of braggin’ 

Came a-droppin’ to our ears. 

“If you’d ever watched my habits very close 
You would know I’ve broke such rabbits by the 
gross. 

I have kep’ my talent hidin’; 

I’m too good for earthly ridin’ 

And I’m off to bust the lightin’s—Adois! 


52 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Years have gone since that ascension. 

Boastful Bill aint never lit, 

So we reckon that he’s wrenchin’ 

Some celestial outlaw’s bit. 

When the night rain beats our slickers 
And the wind is swift and stout 
And the lightnin’ flares and flickers, 

We kin sometimes hear him shout— 

“I’m a bronco-twistin’ wonder on the fly; 

I’m the ridin’ son-of-thunder of the sky; 

Hi! you earthlin’s shut your winders 
While we’re rippin clouds to flinders. 

If this blue-eyed darlin’ kicks at you, you die! 

Star dust on his chaps and saddle, 

Scornful still of jar and jolt, 

He’ll come back some day, astraddle 
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. 

And the thin-skinned generation 
Of that dim and distant day 
Sure will stare with admiration 
When they hear old Boastful say— 

“I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed. 

Now I’m last of all rough riders, and the best. 
Huh! you soft and dainty floaters, 

With your a’roplanes and motors— 

Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the 
west?” 

A dainty little lullaby of Clark’s is his “long¬ 
ing” to return to Dakota, which appeared in an old 
issue of the Deadwood Pioneer-Times. It follows: 

Though a restless man may wander from Johannesburg to 
Nome, 

There is always some one country that he dreams about as 
“home.” 


POETS AND POETRY 


53 


Here and there I camp and sojourn in my roamings back and 
forth 

But my dreams are always drifting to the Black Hills of the 
north. 

Now, while western skies are glowing like an open furnace 
mouth 

And the soft, gray, shadows gather on these deserts of the 
south 

And the coyote’s first weird night-cry down the dim arroyo 
shrills, 

Like a sinner’s dream of Heaven come my visions of the 
Hills. 

In addition to the foregoing poems, it has been 
deemed wise, in order to give the reader a broader 
view of Clark, to reproduce two of his more recent 
poems which were not included in his book: 

THE SPRINGTIME PLAINS 

(From Scribner’s Magazine, 1915.) 

Heart of me, are you hearing 
The drum of hoofs in the rains? 

Over the Springtime plains I ride, 

Knee to knee with Spring 

And glad as the summering sun that comes 

Galloping north through the zodiac. 

Heart of me, let’s forget 

The plains death white and still, 

When lonely love through the stillness called 
Like a smothered stream that sings of Summer 
Under the snow on a Winter night. 

Now the frost is blown from the sky 
And the plains are living again. 

Lark lovers sing on the sunrise trail, 

Wild horses call to me out of the noon, 

Watching me pass with impish eyes, 



54 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Gray coyotes laugh in the quiet dusk 
And the plains are glad all day with me. 

Heart of me, all the way 

My heart and the hoofs keep time 

And the wide, sweet winds from the greening world 

Shout in my ears a glory song, 

For nearer, nearer, mile and mile, 

Over the quivering rim of the plains 
Is the valley that Spring and I love best 
And the waiting eyes of you! 


THE MEDICINE MAN 


(From “The Bellman,” Minneapolis, 1915.) 

(The following is taken from an actual occurrence described by 
Parkman, which happened in what is now western South Dakota, in the 
year 1844.) 

“The trail is long to the bison herd, 

The prairie rotten with rain, 

And look! the wings of the thunder bird 
Blacken the Hills again. 

A medicine man the gods may balk— 

Go fight for us with the thunder hawk!” 


The medicine man flung wide his arms. 

“I am weary of woman talk 
And cook-fire witching and childish charms. 

I fight you the thunder hawk!” 

So he took his arrows and climbed the butte 
While the warriors watched him, scared and mute. 

A wind from the wings began to blow 
And arrows of rain to shoot 
As the medicine man raised high his bow, 
Standing alone on the butte, 

And the day went dark to the cowering band 
As the arrow leaped from his steady hand. 




POETS AND POETRY 

For the thunder hawk swooped down to tight 
And who in his way could stand? 

The flash of his eye was blinding bright 
And his wing-clap stunned the land. 

The braves yelled terror and loosed the rein 
And scattered far on the drowning plain. 

And after the thunder hawk swept by 
They found him, scorched and slain, 

Yet—fighting with gods, “who fears to die?”— 
He smiled with a light disdain. 

That smile was a glory to all his clan 

But none dared touch the medicine man. 

/ 


55 



(Compliments of Chicago Evening Post.) 

Biographical —Born, London, England, August 13, 1859. 
Academic education. Began newspaper career in 1880. Made 
trip around the world. Associated with Dakota Newspapers 
five years. Staff correspondent Chicago Herald. Reported 
Indian Uprising of 1890 and Messiah Outbreak of 1891. Last 
white man who saw the famous Indian chief, Sitting Bull, 
alive. Managing editor Chicago Evening Post, 1894. Married 
Mabel Hitt, Oregon, Ill., April 3, 1884. Author of five books 
and of numerous poems and sketches of the west. 











SAM T. CLOVER 

No literature of South Dakota could be complete 
without some space in it being given to the writings 
of Sam T. Clover. Although foreign born, his sym¬ 
pathies are essentially American and his style is 
typically western. There is a keenness and a breadth 
in his prose that excites wonder, while his poetry 
is universal; that is, it touches all humanity. For 
this reason some of his better poems are destined to 
live. The universality of his “Sublimity” would 
entitle it to a place in any literature. It touches on 
heart strings that tingle with memory as well as 
imagination. 

SUBLIMITY 

I asked a maiden in the blush of youth, 

In whose gray eyes there shone the germs of truth, 
Whose soft red lips were parted in a smile, 

Whose lovely face was innocent of guile: 

“What do you hold the dearest thing in life?” 

“To be,” she answer made, “a happy wife!” 

I asked the mother, as she softly pressed, 

With tender care, an infant to her breast, 

Whose gentle glances hovered o’er the child— 

Which, sleeping, of the angels dreamed and smiled— 
“What is the sweetest pain there is on earth?” 

She bent and kissed the babe: “In giving birth!” 

I asked the matron, who with loving pride 
Beheld the children clustered by her side; 

Who in the wicker chair rocked to and fro— 

Just as she rocked and crooned in years ago— 

“What is the greatest blessing God can send?” 

“A home where love and sweet contentment blend!” 


58 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


I asked a wrinkled woman, o’er whose head 
The snows of many a winter had been shed, 

Whose children from the roof-tree far had strayed— 
Whose husband in his grave had long been land— 
“What is the dearest memory of your life?” 

“The day that I was made a happy wife!” 


From this poem we pass to one of his beautifully 
painted evening sketches. In a level prairie country 
on top of the North American divide where the 
plains are swept alternately and almost continually 
by the tireless winds, it is but natural, in case he 
were going to picture a scene of sunset, that he 
should, in opening each of the first two stanzas, 
allude to the “breeze” and the “wind.” 

EVENING IN DAKOTA 

The breeze dies down, 

The air is fresh and fragrant. The budding trees 
Exhausted by the long unbroken pressure, 

Uplift their dropping leaves and drink the dew 
Which gives them nourishment and sustenance. 

The boisterous wind 
Is stilled at last, as though worn out 
By its own turbulence. The flagging heart revives; 
The tensioned nerves relax their rigorous strain, 
Easing the fevered brow and throbbing pulse. 

The placid stars 
In far-off azure heights, peep shyly out 
And to the tired eyes bring soothing sleep. 

A sense of rest pervades the atmosphere— 

Nature seems hushed in quiet thankfulness. 



POETS AND POETRY 


59 


His perfect contentment with his changed life 
from the busy streets of London to the plains of 
western Dakota is cozily set forth in the following 
poem: 

CONTENT 

One seeks in vain 
A fairer country than this broad domain— 

Where freedom dwells on coteau, hill, and plain— 

And fertile prairies, rich with growing grain, 

Invite the men of courage, brawn, and brain. 

Hither on breezy wing 
Far from the pampered east a-wandering— 

All gilded customs to the winds I fling; 

Why should my heart to city pleasures cling? 

My shack’s a castle! and I reign its king. 

Then come what may, 

Here, in this cabin rude, content I’ll stay; 

Here, at my cabin door, I’ll whilf away 
The cares and troubles of a yesterday:— 

Why should I change my lot? Why farther stray? 

Like Brown and Mrs. Tatro, Clover was fas¬ 
cinated with the seasons. His poems on June and 
July follow. They are indicative of the others. 

IN JUNE 

Ah! luscious June, you sealed my fate, 

With your soft perfumes and your balmy air; 
You witched away my bachelor heart 
You—and that maiden fair! 

Can I ever forget her winsome face 

With its pretty flush and its roseate hue? 

Can I ever forget that kiss I stole:— 

Ah me! Who could? Could you? 



60 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Over the prairie so broad and green— 

Under the western star-lit sky— 

We wandered alone on that soft June night 
With never a watcher by. 

And the plover piped his merriest notes 

And the whippoorwill tuned his sweetest lay; 
While the yellow daisies nodded their heads 
As she stole my heart away. 


JULY 

Sweat and swelter, 

Sizzle and fry, 

This is the month 
We call July. 

Bake and blister, 

Puff and blow, 

Can it be any 
Hotter below? 

Sultry the atmosphere, 

Fiery the sky; 

City and country 
Dusty and dry. 

O, for a breath 
Of Icelandic air! 

O, for a berth with 
The white Polar bear! 

O, for a lodge 

Where Eskimos lie! 

O, for the north pole 
During July! 



POETS AND POETRY 


61 


Clover’s best poem, and the one by which he 
will ultimately be remembered by South Dakotans 
is his 

0, WINDING SIOUX 

O, winding Sioux! O’ winding Sioux! 

For many a mile Eve followed you; 

Along your banks I love to stray 
Far from the dusty, traveled way. 

From prairies, bare of shrub or tree 
I turn, O, sinuous stream, to thee! 

And in thy leafy shade I find 
A solace for the careworn mind. 

In graceful curves across the plain— 

And in and out through fields of grain— 

With sluggish step and murmering song 
You wind your dreamy way along. 

Anon with quickened pulse you flow 
To join the eddying swirl below; 

And onward plunge through rocky dells 
With heaving breast and troubled swells. 

Then once again in quiet shade— 

Below the stately palisade— 

O’er jasper rocks you slip and splash 

With giddy haste and reckless dash. 

* * * 

O, winding Sioux! 0, winding Sioux! 

Through summer days I’d follow you; 

And on your banks amid your braes 
I’d sing your never-ending praise. 

In addition to his poetry and his newspaper 
work, Clover also wrote seven charming volumes of 
prose. These are in his “Paul Travers’ Adventures,” 



62 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


‘'Glimpses Across the Sea,” “Rose Reef to Bulu- 
wayo,” “On Special Assignment” and “Kathrine 
Howard,” and two others. As these books came 
from press, they were widely read, but like other 
works of fiction, even though they may have a firm 
historical setting, they soon must give way for 
newer works along the same line. 

But Clover must also be associated with the 
newspaper life of the state. For some time he and 
Hayden Carruth published the Dakota Bell, at Sioux 
Falls. Their clever sayings and ready poems made 
the Bell, for the time being, one of the strongest 
literary weeklies in the state. Their original matter 
was quoted far and wide by the leading dailies of the 
west, and by the magazines of the whole country. 
They finally sold out: Clover became identified with 
“Saturday Night” and Carruth joined the staff of 
the Woman’s Home Companion. 





Biographical —Born, Illinois, 1880. Came to Dakota with 
parents in 1890. Settled at Rapid City. Attended public 
schools at Rapid City, also the State School of Mines located 
at that place. Served with South Dakota Infantry in the 
Philippines. Upon return home became engaged in editorial 
work, being associated at various times with the St. Paul 
Dispatch, the Chicago Evening Post and the Denver Times. 
Later became editor of the Whitewood (S. D.) Plaindealer. 
Sold out. Identified with the International Livestock Ex¬ 
position Company, Chicago. Resigned. Married. Now lives 
in Pasedena, Cal. 


Robert V. Carr 




































ROBERT V. CARR 

Robert V. Carr, known as the “cow boy poet,” 
(although he never was a cow boy, but merely 
visited their camps), had published in 1902 a volume 
of poems called “Black Hills Ballads.” These con¬ 
sisted of rambling verses centered mostly on friv¬ 
olous themes. The best one in the entire book is: 

JUNE IN THE HILLS 
Now the golden summer sunlight 

Gleams athwart and through the pines, 

And the fragrant breath of June-time 
Stirs the tangle in the vines; 

And the echoes from the canyons 
Drift in ecstacy along— 

Drift in ecstacy and languor 
On a tide of liquid song. 

Lo, with flash of purple fire 

Comes the sunset edged with gold, 

With amethysts and rubies 

Burning, glinting through the fold 
Of clouds, rich crimson-tinted, 

Growing fainter, fainter still, 

’Til the land is steeped in twilight 
And the shadows haunt the hill. 

Now the tender, mystic starlight 
Thrills the fairy haunts of June, 

Silvery glancing where the willows 
Bend to hear the river’s tune. 

Where the crickets sing together, 

And the daisies light the sod, 

And the musky, dusky night-nymphs 
Chant a symphony to God. 


66 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


But Carr had splendid undeveloped talents; he 
kept on writing; and in 1908, the W. B. Conkey 
Company, of Hammond, Ind., brought out a neat 
volume of his poems, entitled “Cow Boy Lyrics.” It 
contains 110 poems, classified under four heads— 
“Ranch and Range,” “On the Trail of Love,” “Where 
the Chinook Blows,” and “On the Trail of Yester¬ 
day.” The poems in this second volume are much 
more mature than those contained in the first one. 
The editorial reviews of this book were exception¬ 
ally flattering far and wide. 

The following poems, taken from “Cowboy 
Lyrics,” will suffice to give his natural, inviting 
style: 

THE WIDOW’S LOT 

Mis’ Pike jes called—the first time fer 
A month o’ Sundays I’ve seen her— 

She took on scan’luss about me 
A-livin’ here alone an’ she 
Jes’ upped an’ said a ranch was not 
A place fer widders, an’ she sot 
An’ harped on that one string ’til I 
Jes’ shut her mouth with tea an’ pie. 

Poor William’s dead nigh on a year, 

But I can’t say I’m pinin’ here; 

An’ law me! what’s a soul to do, 

What’s going onto forty-two? 

Fer who’ll dispoot a real live man 
Around a ranch is handy, an’ 

Jack Plummer says to me last night— 

He jes’ stopped in to get a bite 
O’ chicken pie—he says, says he: 

“You ain’t a day o’er twenty-three.” 


POETS AND POETRY 


67 


But Jack is such a josher that 
He’s allers talkin’ thro’ his hat. 

The other day Bill Howe drove by, 

An’ said the cricks were jes’ bank high, 
An’ he’d a four-hoss load an’ he 
Declared he’d leave some truck with me, 

A sack o’ flour an’ some corn, 

A sack o’ sugar which was torn, 

Which Bill jes vowed would go to waste 
Unless sweet things was to my taste. 

A week ago John Nye drove in— 

His heart is big if he is thin— 

He said he’d butchered an’ he thought 
A side o’ beef an’ bacon ought 
To nohow meet with my refuse, 

Since he had more than he could use. 

An’ there’s Hank Dailey, ev’ry day 
He sort o’ drops in that-o-way, 

To see if there’s a chore to do, 

An’ then jes stays the whole day thro’; 
An’ jes flares up when I talk “pay,” 

Fer Hank’s right touchy, an’ he’ll say: 

“I haven’t got a thing to do, 

It’s exercise to work fer you.” 

An’ so between them all, you see, 

There’s lots that’s worser off than me; 

The ranch is clear, an’ eggs an’ truck 
Bring prices high, an’ then I’ve luck 
With all my stock, that’s bound to grow— 
But yet there’s one thing which I know, 
An’ might as well say to your face, 

A man’s most handy ’round a place; 


68 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


But William’s gone an’ there’s no more— 
Land sakes! There’s Dailey at the door! 

THE TRYST 

I’ve ridden since the day throwed back 
The trailers of the night, 

An’ what fer, shall I tell you, 

In a stampede o’ delight? 

To wait out by the cottonwoods, 

An’ dove-call softly to 
A girl I know will answer: 

“I’m a-comin’, boy, to you.” 

’Twas no time to spare my bronco; 

His breathin’ spells were brief; 

He’s white with foam an’ shakin’ 

Like the Chinook shakes the leaf. 

Fer I’ve splashed through muddy rivers, 
An’ loped across divides,' 

An’ ridden where no puncher 
In his reason ever rides. 

Thro’ walkers caked with gumbo, 

The buffalo once knew; 

Thro’ water holes an’ washouts, 

An’ a-boggin’ in the slew. 

O’er alkali an’ sage brush flats 
I cut the whistlin’ breeze, 

An’ come straight as the eagle 
When his lady bird’s to please. 

I’m a-watchin’ an’ I’m waitin’ 

With heart as light as air, 

As happy as they make ’em, 

Either here or anywhere. 

Jes’ to listen fer her footfall, 

An’ hear her sweet voice thro’ 

The prairie silence murmur, 

“I’m a-comin’, boy, to you.” 


POETS AND POETRY 


69 


THE BAD LANDS 

Bluffs of ochre and brown and red, 

In varied glory flare, 

For here is the land of mystery, 

Where God plays solitaire. 

A gray plain and a soft mirage, 

In the blue haze over there, 

For here is the land of lonesomeness, 
Where God plays solitaire. 

A muddy butte and shapes that come 
And at the sunset stare, 

For here is the land of forgotten pasts, 
Where God plays solitaire. 

A silence that dwarfs the soul of man, 
Oh, the silence everywhere! 

For here is the land of things unsolved, 
Where God plays solitaire. 



Will Chamberlain 

Biographical —Born, Bradford county, Pa., July 6, 1865. 
Removed to Dakota in 1871. Reared on a farm in the Sioux 
Valley. Educated in the village schools of Union county; 
later studied at the University of South Dakota. In 1891, 
married Miss Mattie Ericson. Father of two children—a 
boy and a girl. Farmer; also a teacher. Held principalships 
at Jefferson, Avon, and Lesterville. Home, Yankton, S. D. 





























WILL CHAMBERLAIN 
Will Chamberlain is a free thinker—an original 
writer. His prose and his poetry each possess a 
strong individuality. He has written short stories, 
sketches and poetry for The National Magazine, The 
Springfield (S. D.) Republican, and the Literary 
Magazine. He has also written dozens (it might 
be more proper to say, hundreds) of special articles 
for the Dakota Republican of Vermillion, for the 
Elk Point Courier and for the Aberdeen Daily 
American. For several years he has been furnishing 
a set of “Wayside Notes” each week for the Sioux 
City Journal. These notes are very original and are 
intensely interesting. Many of his best poems have 
appeared in them. Following is one that is some¬ 
what unique: 

THE GOSSIPER 
Now let us pause to consider 
The gossip a little while, 

Think of her tattle bitter, 

Measure her knowing smile; 

Gauge her by rule and level, 

Mete out her proper place— 

Whether she be of the devil 
Or almost an angel of grace; 

Whether she be an evil 
Of consummate design, 

Or a type of half evangel, 

A self-called priestess, in fine. 

Well, first of all, as a talker 
She’s rather clever you say, 

A dealer in tales, a shocker 
Of preconceived notions, a gay 


72 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And heart to heart coming neighbor, 
That meets you across the fence 
With a tongue as keen as a saber 
And a mind for the present tense. 
Her sins—they doubtless are scarlet, 
And yet I sometimes believe 
That many a maid and varlet, 

Whose standing she seems to grieve. 
Are kept from deeper scandal, 

From more impious plot 
Because this female vandal 

Has a tongue that is quick and hot. 
And tho’ she if often harmful, 

A virago of unrest, 

A tattler and vixen shameful, 

Whose orbit is most unblest, 

I still have a nebulous notion 
That her sphere is misunderstood, 
That the yarns she sets in motion 
May turn to be gems of good, 

That even some stars of glory 

Upon her head may dwell, 

When heaven reveals the story 
Of mortals she scared from hell. 


Chamberlain is, first of all, a philosopher. One 
has to labor to read his poetry; however, the more 
you read it the better you like it. 

He was reared in the Big Sioux Valley. Like 
all true poets he loves nature. “How dear to (his) 
heart are the scenes of (his) childhood/’ He was 
fascinated with the old river. In the spring and 
fall, he hunted ducks on it; in the summer, he swam 
in it, sat on its grass-laden banks and caught fish 
out of it; while in the winter his steel skates were 



POETS AND POETRY 


73 


made to ring on its icy bosom. It is, therefore, 
natural, when he first began to write poetry, that 
this old stream, along whose banks he had spent so 
many happy hours, should have suggested itself to 
him as his constant theme. His “Down by the 
Sioux,” his “Night on the Sioux” and his “In the 
Valley of the Sioux” are rich heritages of his re¬ 
flections over his childhood days. The first two of 
these poems follow: 

DOWN BY THE SIOUX 
Down by the old Sioux in spring! 

When the bottom land is spongy-like and damp 
And ruined haystacks give a moment’s rest 
From the long, swinging tramp 
And vantage ground to wait the clattering ducks, 

That storm across the timber belt and swing, 

On dropping wings above the water-splashed prairie, 
Till ’frighted by the grim repeater’s ring. 

Along the Sioux! how oft these feet have strolled, 
Unmindful of the striving thoughts of those 
Who give their footsteps to the sounding pave, 

Nor pause to see the morning’s spreading rose 
Slip down the bluffy swales to greet 

The sentinel cottonwoods and willowy hedge 
That hold in sacred guard the rude survey, 

Where Titan marked the river’s winding edge. 


NIGHT ON THE SIOUX 
Softly the darkness falls, and such mild dark! 

The stars have scarce a need their veils to lift 
That they may smile upon the bended mark 
Of sinking Luna. The thicket’s festooned rift 
Mellows the major of the thrush’s cry. 

While the dim quaver of the home dove’s sigh, 



74 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Waiting the coming of her lover true, 

Broods like enchantment o’er the fading Sioux. 

Silver and purple now the river drifts; so calm 
The skies that hover o’er! I fain would lie 
Here by my self and know the stealing balm 
Of that intrepid mood that would defy 
The clustered memories of care, and put aside 
The iron law which doth our joy divide 
With rudest glee. Find thou, my heart, 

The solace this dear moment doth impart. 


The following poem, entitled, “To A Tiny 
Sleeper,” is among Chamberlain’s best. It is beauti¬ 
fully conceived and tastily- expressed. In it one 
cannot fail to see the little sleeper lying before him 
with closed eyes and with its tiny hands clutched 
gently in the lace of its baby night robe. Then the 
poet causes the reader to lift his own eyes and look 
penitently into the future. 

TO A TINY SLEEPER 

Dear little one, thy eyelids sweet 
Are closed in sleep, in holy calm, 

No worldly waves of trouble beat 
Upon thy dreaming’s Gilead balm. 

The fingers of the summer breeze 
Most softly toy with thy lips, 

But bear no taint of sorrow’s lees 
To crown thy hour with dark eclipse. 

I know that I have wandered far 
’Mid vain illusions of the world, 

The dust of sin has left its mar 

Upon my hands, but thine are curled 



POETS AND POETRY 


75 


Twin lillies on thy bosom’s nest, 

Pink tendrils clutching- dainty lace, 
Frail blossoms folded into rest 
Beside the beauty of thy face. 

Oh, when the time of endless sleep 
Shall hail me in the worldly throng 
From out Eternity’s vast deep, 

Not manhood’s efforts bold and strong 
May be my guidon most sure,— 

Fair Christ, forget my later ills, 

And make me as this wee one pure, 
When Death my heart forever stills. 


No doubt Chamberlain’s strongest poem, and 
the one on which his reputation as a poet, must 
ultimately rest, is his “Reflections In A Prairie 
Cemetery.” It follows: 

REFLECTIONS IN A PRAIRIE CEMETERY 
I saw a rustic train wind solemnly 

Along a way where harvest whispers stole 
Some spirit lorn had claimed its liberty, 

Another heart had doffed its gift of dole. 

# 

The circled mourners stood in awkward grace 
The sturdy men uncovered in the sun, 

The sallow preacher found his studied place 
And plaintively the final rite begun: 

“Dust unto dust! we here for aye consign 
Within the bosom of our mother earth.” 

The frail cup falls and spills the scarlet wine, 

Lost for distillment in a crystal birth. 

“Dust unto dust” and lo! the shocking clod 
Rings darkly down, an orphaned cry replies, 

“Dust unto dust”—a soul leaps up to God— 

The ultimatum of its life’s emprise. 



7G 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


I saw the simple folk with sighing flee, 

To labor’s calls they hurried here or there. 
Their echoed going smote the upland lea, 

And busy tales hummed on the pearly air. 


Careless of wealth or crinkling sheaves I stayed, 
Idly to trace the streets of carven stone— 
Telling where those eternally delayed 
Slept on and on forevermore alone. 


Slept on and on, where never breaking morn 
Peeps thro’ the curtains, the dawn beams fall; 
Of ev’ry hope and mem’ry mutely shorn, 

Save only Love’s immortal-wafted call. 


Hours into ages here shall slowly creep, 

E’en dimpled flesh be changed to thinnest dust, 
While o’er this nameless, awful nook of sleep, 
Man’s lips still frame a wordless prayer of trust. 


A faith, a hope that when a dear one sinks 

From mother arms that clasped and fondled so 
To drift beyond those vast, uncharted brinks, 

A Father’s care will with the jewel go. 


A faith that not a pilgrim hither dares, 

Tho’ life’s span be a tiny day or years, 

But there’s a watchful Pilot knows how fares, 
And thence a lifting Canaan sweetly cheers. 


Out of the fields the reapers’ voices came, 

The lance-like shuttles of the harvest gleamed 
The stubble bent beneath the clanking game, 

The sable cricket in his straw-cot dreamed. 


POETS AND POETRY 


77 


As rosy even bathed each quiet tomb, 

Changing to crimson wreath or angel form 
I left this Home of Peace to gentle gloom. 

Perchance the wild caprice of hinted storm. 

Yet did I know that pelt of sheeted rain, 

Nor whirl of blast could ever taunt or wake 
The tenants of those chambers where no pain, 
Like tortured tides in foamy spoil, may break. 

From distant climes they journeyed to this spot 
Or braved the seas ’neath soft grass here to lie,— 
A western sky above the little plot 

And springtime blossoms lifting forth to die. 



Captain Jack Crawford 

Biographical —Born, Ireland (date unknown). Left with 
an uncle (James Wallace) by his mother, while yet a mere 
child. She came to America to seek his wayward father. 
Found him. Jack was finally sent for. Worked in Pennsyl¬ 
vania coal mines. Enlisted in Civil War at 16. Joined 48th 
Pennsylvania Volunteers. Wounded at Spottsylvania Court 
House, May 12, 1864; Petersburg, April 2, 1865. Migrated 
west after the war. Among early Black Hills explorers. 
Helped to found Deadwood, Custer and Spearfish. Succeeded 
Buffalo Bill, Aug. 24, 1876, as Chief of General Crook’s 
scouts. Died, 1917. 









CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD 


We are now to be introduced to a new style of 
poetry—some of it rough in its character; some, 
beautifully descriptive; some, idealistic and inspir¬ 
ing—from the pen of an uneducated frontier scout, 
Captain Jack Crawford. During the time he was 
confined in the Saterlee Hospital, West Philadelphia, 
Penn., while his last wound was healing near the 
close of the Civil War, a Sister of Charity who was 
attending him, taught him to read and write. This 
constituted his education. Yet, within him were 
the hidden beauties of a poet's soul. 

A large volume of his poems was published in 
1886. They cover every conceivable phase of human 
experience. While many of them abound in coarse 
frontier slang, yet others are very delicate and 
pleasing in their phraseology. All of his poems 
possess a strong originality. 

He was intimately associated with Wild Bill 
(Harry Hickok). After the latter’s death, he wrote: 

THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL 

Under the sod in the prairie-land 
We have laid him down to rest, 

With many a tear from the sad, rough throng 
And the friends he loved the best; 

And many a heart-felt sigh was heard 
As over the earth we trod, 

And many an eye was filled with tears 
As we covered him with the sod. 



80 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Under the sod in the prairie-land 
We have laid the good and true— 

An honest heart and a noble scout 
Has bade us a last adieu. 

No more his silvery laugh will ring, 

His spirit has gone to God; 

Around his faults let Charity cling 
While you cover him with the sod. 

Under the sod in the land of gold 
We have laid the fearless Bill; 

We called him wild, yet a little child 
Could bend his iron will. 

With generous heart he freely gave 
To the poorly clad—unshod; 

Think of it, pards—of his noble traits— 

While you cover him with the sod. 

The four additional stanzas of this poem are 
coarse and reminiscent. Later, while in deeper 
meditation, he wrote a description of: 

WILD BILL’S GRAVE 

On the side of the hill, between Whitewood and Deadwood. 

At the foot of a pine stump, there lies a lone grave, 
Environed with rocks and with pine trees and redwood, 
Where the wild roses bloom o’er the breast of the brave. 

A mantle of brushwood the green sward incloses, 

The green boughs are waving far up overhead; 

While under the sod and the flowerets reposes 

The brave and the dead. 

Did I know him in life? Yes as brother knows brother; 

I knew him and loved him—’twas all I could give,— 

My love. But the fact is we loved one another, 

And either would die that the other might live. 

Rough in his ways? Yes; but kind and good-hearted; 



POETS AND POETRY 


81 


There wasn’t a flaw in the heart of Wild Bill; 

And well I remember the day that we started 

That grave on the hill. 

And now let me show you the good that was in him— 

The letters he wrote to his Agnes—his wife; 

Why, a look or smile, one kind word could win him. 

Hear part of this letter—the last of his life: 

“Agnes, Darling : If such should be that we never meat again, while 
firing my last shot I will gently breath the name of my wife—my 
Agnes—and with wish even for my enemies, I will make the plunge and' 
try to swim to the other shore.” 

Oh, Charity! come fling your mantle about him; 

Judge him not harshly—he sleeps ’neath the sod; 

Custer—brave Custer—was lonesome without him, 

Even with God. 

sjc * 

Again, while sitting on Wild Bill’s grave, on 
September 10, 1876, he wrote his Epitaph as fol¬ 
lows : 

Sleep on, brave heart, in peaceful slumber, 

Bravest scout in all the West; 

Lighted eyes and voice of thunder, 

Closed and hushed in quiet rest. 

Lightning eyes and voice of thunder, 

May we meet again in heaven. 

Rest in peace! 


From his virulent slang which shows at its 
worst in his poem entitled “Rattlin’ Joe’s Prayer” 
(a poem that has been used for years by leading 
elocutionists of America), we must transcend to his 
“Little Ones Praying at Home.” The poet’s own 
historical account of how he happened to write this 
beautiful lullaby, is herein given: 



82 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


On the 15th of September, 1880, I was camped at Lake Goozeman 
(Laguna de Goozeman), in the state of Chihuahua, Old Mexico. I had 
been sent out bv General Buell, with two companies, to find the camp 
of the hostile chief, Victorio, with the view of meeting him, and, if 
possible, of inducing him to return to the reservation. While reading a 
long letter from my wife, the following line appeared: 

“Remember my dear boy, you have little ones praying at home.” 
As this was one of the most dangerous as well as one of the most tiresome 
trips I ever made, these lines were very suggestive; and there by the 
beautiful lake and by the light of the moon, 1 wrote the following song : 


LITTLE ONES PRAYING AT HOME 

There are little ones praying- for me far away, 
There are little ones praying for me; 

With tiny hands pressed before each little breast, 
Their sweet faces in dreamland I see. 

“Bless papa, dear Father, where’er he may go, 
And where duty may call him to roam; 
Through the hills and the valleys of Old Mexico, 
Watch over and bring him safe home.” 

CHORUS 

So tonight, I am happy in Old Mexico, 

While I sit in the moonlight alone; 

For surely ’tis pleasant to feel and to know 
There are little ones praying at home. 


I know not what moment my spirit may fly 
To the land where dear mother has gone; 

But oh, if I knew on the bosom so true 
I might rest on the morrow at dawn. 

I would willingly go, never more to return 

Never more through these wild lands to roam; 

But sweet little voices seem whisp’ring tonight, 
“You have little ones praying at home.” 

The moon in her splendor is shining tonight, 

By her beams I am writing just now, 

While an angel of love seems to smile from above, 
With the bright star of hope on her brow, 


POETS AND POETRY 


83 


And whisper in language so sweet to my soul: 

“I am with you wherever you you roam; 

And remember when weary and foot-sore at night, 
‘You have little ones praying at home.’ ” 


Ralph Crothers 

Biographical —Born on farm, Brookings County, S. D. 
Aug. 4, 1889. Completed grades and high school at Hetland, 
S. D. Graduated, South Dakota State College, 1910. Farmer 
since then. 






















RALPH CROTHERS 


Associated with the poet, H. Howard Biggar, 
and a classmate of his at the State College, is 
another clever young poet, Ralph Crothers. While 
in college at Brookings, he was the poet of his class. 
At the time of his graduation, in 1910, two members 
of his class—Biggar and Atkinson—and Fridley of 
the class of 1911, got out a neat little volume of his 
poems entitled “Badger Bard Verse.” In the open¬ 
ing paragraph of the Preface, the compilers say: 

“Near the shores of Lake Badger is an historic 
spot. Around it centers more than local interest, 
and year after year a multitude of tourists who 
brave the ride over the Dakota Central (now Great 
Northern) pay it homage, because it marks the 
birthplace of the author of these poems—Ralph L. 
Crothers. His early years were uneventful. The 
lake always held a charm for him, and at nightfall, 
when the shadows swept over the waters, he would 
spend hours on the shore listening to the swish of 
the waves and the cries of the wild fowl. These 
sights and sounds affected powerfully his future 
thought and no doubt instilled in him that love of 
Nature which is so well shown in his poetic works.” 

From this volume have been culled three poems 
for publication as follows: 

BADGER BREEZES 
There are places, far famed places, 

Where the Cottonwood is flowing, 

There are many spots so verdant green to see; 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


But the place of all the places 
Where Dakota’s breeze is blowing, 

Dear old Badger is the only place for me. 

You can talk of balmy breezes, 

You can talk of placid waters, 

You can talk of boundless prairies wild and free; 

But the zephyrs softly playing 
On Lake Badger’s wavelets straying 

Brings enchantment to a simple youth like me. 

And at twilight as I ponder 

And the idle moments squander, 

Oft I think of you, Old Scout, so far away; 

And I fain would stray beside you 
Down the brook where wavelets ride blue, 

Where the Cottonwood is flowing day by day 


FIRESIDE FLASHINGS 
In the chilly gloom of evening, 

With the lamplight brightly gleaming, 

All alone I sit and think of bygone days. 

And my mind, while idly roaming 

In the stillness, in the gloaming 

To the westward, to the westward oftimes strays. 

Then your face before me beaming, 

Brighter than the lamplight gleaming, 

Drives the shadows ever backward from the wall. 

And the stillness then is broken, 

For in fancy words are spoken, 

And I seem to hear the Old Scout’s lusty call. 

Where the Cottonwood is twining 
And you hear the jackals whining, 

There the Old Scout still is scouting staunch and true. 
And the night wind slowly dying, 

Round my cabin softly sighing, 

Brings me back to thoughts of bygone days and you. 



POETS AND POETRY 


87 


FARMIN’ 

Talk about your education, 

’Riginal investigation, 

Tell me of your higher learning if you will; 

But there’s always something lacking, 

Even though your brain’s a racking, 

And the college dope don’t seem to fill the bill. 

There’s another school we’re tending, 

And that school is not soon ending, 

And you view the situation with alarm; 

For you know there’s no returning 
To a place of higher learning, 

When you take a course in farming on the farm. 

All year round with no vacation 
Gets to be a heavy ration, 

Though the folks all say it won’t do any harm. 
Bless my soul! Why thunderation! 

Just a little brief vacation, 

When you take a course in farming on the farm. 

Up at five to feed the horses, 

Talk about your heavy courses; 

Milk the cows and feed the hogs a little corn, 
And your eyes are full of slumber, 

And your shoes are full of lumber, 

When you take a course in farming on the farm. 

Sunday morning, off to meeting, 

All your farmer friends a greeting ; 

Hair all combed and dressed up fit to kill. 

Stand and gossip ’bout the weather, 

Crops and neighbors, wondering whether 
Little Willie gave the hogs that pail of swill. 


88 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Preacher comes and goes to preaching. 

’Till your empty stomach’s screeching; 

I ike to knock him off the platform with a club. 
Then when homeward you are fleeing, 

Each and everyone one’s agreeing 
That the preacher is a windy sort of dub 

Yes, the air is rather spicy 
And the mornings rather icy, 

But you get a bunch of muscle on your arm. 
v onr grades look kind of funny, 

And they mostly come in money, 

When you take a course in farming on the farm. 





Biographical —Almira J. Dickinson (nee Patterson). 
Direct descendant of Israel Putnam of Revolutionary fame. 
Born in Fishkill, Dutchess county, N. Y., 1832. Removed to 
Ontario, LaGrange county, Ind., 1847. Attended LaGrange 
Institute. Began teaching in 1848. Taught six years, carry¬ 
ing some studies in meantime. Married Eugene Dickinson, 
1854. Mother of* four sons. Prominent member Christian 
Science church. Correspondent for many years for numerous 
magazines and leading newspapers. Author of five books 
and booklets. Removed to Dakota, 1888. Settled at Cham¬ 
berlain. Husband died in 1890. She filed on claim in Brule 
county. Died, on homestead, June 14, 1916, at eighty-four 
years of age. 





















MRS. ALMIRA J. DICKINSON 


Mrs. Dickinson’s poetry is of that scholarly, 
finished character which appeals to the mature mind. 
It is deeply imbedded in natural, in moral, and in 
psychic philosophy. Her vocabulary is replete with 
poesy, and her diction is most perfect. She, too, 
like Clover and others, is a writer of prose as well as 
poetry; she was formerly a newspaper correspond¬ 
ent. For several years she wrote for the Toledo 
Blade, Loch’s National Monthly, the Po’Keepsie 
Telegraph, Omaha Bee and the Boston Transcript, 
as well as furnishing poems for the Home Magazine 
and other publications. 

Her first booklet, “Voices of the Wind,” met 
with a ready sale. She followed it with “A Souvenir 
of Dakota—The Artensian Wells,” illustrated in 
colors. The edition was so quickly exhausted that 
she promptly brought forth her “Voices From the 
Wheat Fields.” It made a charming impression. 
Real estate men bought the books by the hundreds to 
send to their customers for Christmas presents. Her 
reputation as a popular author was rapidly becom¬ 
ing established. When the Christian Science church 
was dedicated in Boston, Mrs. Dickinson wrote the 
dedicatory poem entitled “Dedication of the Mother 
Church in Boston.” This strong poem was later 
published in book form, with handsomely illustrated 
covers in colors, and it has been sold all over the 
United States. 



92 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


In the course of time it was suggested by her 
admiring readers that she collect and publish her 
best poems all in one volume. This she did in 1907, 
giving to it the title “Ocean and Other Poems.” It 
is illustrated in colors, and is by far the finest piece 
of mechanical work that has appeared in a book of 
poems within the state. It is from the presses of 
the Ware Brothers’ Company, Philadelphia. 

In it the author starts out with a charming 
descriptive poem on the ocean, proper, and then 
follows it with these poetic theses as corroborative 
of her general theme: “A Calm,” “A Storm,” “In 
the Depths,” “Influence of the Moon,” “Influence of 
Gravity,” “Influence of the Sun.” 

Mrs. Dickinson’s poems, in general, are very 
lengthy, making reproduction of them herein quite 
impractical. For instance, her “Evelyne” consists 
of thirty-nine eight-line stanzas. Its language is 
so chaste and its coloring so rich and beautiful that 
the first three stanzes are reproduced, to give the 
reader an idea of its charming style throughout. 

EVELYNE 

A rosy robe the sunset hung 
Along the western skies, 

And clouds of flame and purple flung 
To earth their gorgeous dyes, 

Until the lakelet’s quiet breast 
Was buttoned in a crimson vest, 

And hill and vale and village spire 
Seemed glowing with celestial fire. 


POETS AND POETRY 


93 


But, like the phases of a dream, 

Those tintings passed away, 

And deep’ning twilight only wore 
A robe of sober gray. 

And twilight dews, like angel tears, 

Shed for the gathered crime of years, 

And prompted by a holy love, 

Fell from the pitying heavens above. 

The moon hung in the jeweled sky, 

A radiant orb of light, 

Enshrouding all my garden flowers 
In robes of silver white. 

And lightly at the open door 
Its snowflakes sifted on the floor, 

As in the happy days of yore, 

Till quick on memory’s bounding track 
Youth’s golden hours came thronging back. 


The buoyancy with which she approaches some 
subjects is exhilarating in the extreme. From her 
melancholy surroundings under “The Maple Tree,” 
wherein she says (evidently as an allusion to her 
dead husband): 

Oh, stern, relentless hand of death! 

Why could ye not have spared 
One, only one, who could with me 
Life’s wilderness have shared? 

she mounts on “Voices of the Wind” to a thrilling 
cadence of rapture. This poem is also quite lengthy. 
The first section only of it is therefore given: 

VOICES OF THE WIND 

Listen to the voices of the wind, 

To the thousand changeful voices of the 
spirit of the wind. 



94 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


To the strange, mysterious voices, 

To the wild and angry voices, 

To the sweet, low, pleading voices of the 
spirit of the wind. 

When he tunes his harp to sing 
For the ever-welcome Spring, 

And he pipes a roundelay 
To the merry, merry May, 

Or he breathes a thrilling tune 
In the leafy bowers of June, 

How the waving forest answers, 

And the glad trees clap their hands! 
How their silken plumes and tassels 
Bow as his acknowledged vassals, 

As they dance a glad attendance 
To his softly-breathed commands! 

How he whispers, whispers, whispers 
To the sleeping infant flowers! 

How his matins and his vespers 
Carol through their virgin bowers 
How he trills, till he Alls 
All their hearts with gentle thrills, 

And a loving secret tells 
To the swinging lily bells! 

And with skillful touch uncloses 
All the petals of the roses; 

And they lift their starry eyes 
In a rapture of surprise, 

And, all radiant with blushes, 

Spring to meet their ardent lover 
Spring to greet their gentle lover, 

The sweet spirit of the wind. 

Thus, through spring and summer hours, 
He, the lover of the flowers, 

Is forever singing, dancing 
In their leafy, scented bowers. 

Listen to the voices of the wind, 


POETS AND POETRY 


95 


To the loud, imperious voices of the 
spirit of the wind. 

When he boldly rushes forth 
From his dwelling in the north, 

How he blows his rattling trumpet, 

And he beats his noisy drum! 

How he shouts and screams in fury 
As, without a judge or jury, 

He condemns the bloom and verdure in his 
pathway to the tomb. 

One of her cheeriest short productions is 
“Pumpkin Pie” which we give in full:* 

PUMPKIN PIE 

When the cool November breezes 
Bring to us the northern freezes, 

And the prairie verdure ceases, 

And departing summer sighs, 

Then with what ecstatic rapture 
We the golden pumpkins capture, 

And we store them in the cellar 
For our future pumpkin pies. 

’Twas the magic of a fairy, 

With a form so light and airy, 

That a golden pumpkin changed in- 
To a coach so snug and neat, 

And informed Miss Cinderilla 
That her tears were vain and silly— 

If she wished to join the revels— 

In the coach to take a seat. 

So our girls—the household fairies— 

Each a golden pumpkin carries 
In her arms, so plump and snowy, 

Quite ignoring weight and size. 


I 



9(5 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And with slaughter almost tragic, 

And with skill akin to magic, 

They transform those golden spheres in 
To delicious pumpkin pies. 

Oh, the crust so crisp and puffy, 

With its contents soft and fluffy, 

How its fragrant, spicy odors 
Lade the “palpitating air!” 

How its contents, brown and golden, 
Bring to mind Thanksgiving olden, 
When this pie, by all assembled, 

Was crowned fairest of the fare. 

Pies of apple, plum and cherry, 

Spicy mince and luscious berry, 

Lemon, custard, so delicious 
That for more you often sigh. 

But if you would know perfection 
And a pie without objection, 

Choose a regular old-fashioned 
Yankee country pumpkin pie. 


# 



s 































































Hamlin Garland 


Biographical —Born, West Salem, Wis., Sept. 16, 1860. 
At seven years of age removed with parents to Winnesheik 
County, Iowa. Graduated, Cedarville Seminary, Osage, 
Iowa, 1881. Taught school 1882-83, in Illinois. Came to 
South Dakota in 1883. Took claim, McPherson county. Went 
to Boston fall of 1884. Studied Literature in Boston public 
library. Came West again. Wrote short stories and novels. 
Organized “Cliff Dwellers’ Club,” of Chicago. Removed to 
New York in 1915. 


HAMLIN GARLAND 

South Dakota justly lays claim to an author 
who has won a national reputation in the Literary 
world, Hamlin Garland. He is the most popular 
novelist in the West, aside from Harold Bell 
Wright; and yet, solely for the purpose of study, 
we have classified him among the poets. 

Although Garland was educated in the East, 
he is essentially Western—western by birth, western 
in sympathy and western in style. He was born in 
Wisconsin; when a young man, he homesteaded in 
Dakota. The scene of his first novel, “Main-Traveled 
Roads,” is laid in South Dakota. His mother gave 
him the foundation for the story. He sold it for 
seventy-five dollars, and promptly gave her one-half 
of the amount. 

Garland's strength rests largely in his uncon¬ 
ventionality. He boldly sets a literary style of his 
own. He makes his characters real instead of ideal 
and analyzes them as they are. The West was look¬ 
ing for this kind of a writer. He supplied the de¬ 
mand. 

It is due Garland to list herein his many wide- 
read novels, to date: “Main-Traveled Roads,” “Jason 
Edwards,” “A Little Norsk,” “Prairie Folks,” “A 
Spoil of Office,” “A Member of the Third House,” 
“Crumbling Idols,” “Rose of Dutcher’s Cooley,” 
“Wayside Courtships,” “Ulysses Grant” (Biograph¬ 
ical), “The Spirit of Sweet-Water,” “The Eagle’s 


100 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Heart,” “Her Mountain Lover,” “The Captain of the 
Gray Horse Troop,” “Hesper,” “Light of the Star,” 
“The Tyranny of the Dark,” “The Long Trail,” 
“Money Magic,” “Boy Life on the Prairie,” “The 
Shadow World,” “Trail of the Gold Seekers,” “Vic¬ 
tor Olnee’s Discipline,” “Witche’s Gold” (a revised 

edition of “The Spirit of Sweet-Water”), “Cava¬ 
naugh,” “Moccasin Ranch” (a story of Dakota). 

With all of these books and several others to 
his credit, plus a number of charming short stories, 
we must, nevertheless, for our purpose, treat him as 
a poet and consider a few of his poems. 

THE CRY OF THE AGE 

(The Outlook, May 6, 1899.) 

What shall I do to be just? 

What shall I do for the gain 

Of the world—for its sadness? 

Teach me, 0 Seers that I trust! 

Chart me the difficult main 

Leading out of my sorrow and madness, 

Preach me the purging of pain. 

Shall I wrench from my finger the ring 
To cast to the tramp at my door? 

Shall I tear off each luminous thing 
To drop in the palm of the poor? 

What shall I do to be just? 

Teach me, 0 ye in the light. 

Whom the poor and the rich alike trust: 

My heart is aflame to be right. 


POETS AND POETRY 


101 


DEATH IN THE DESERT 

(Munsey’s, June 1901.) 

He died and we buried him there— 

In the sound of an unnamed stream; 

The poison plants around him flare, 

And the silence is deep as death. 

Where we left him in wordless dream, 

With a “God Speed” spoken underbreath. 

I laid a flower on the dead man’s breast, 

While the eagles whistled in shrill dismay— 
Nothing could then disturb his rest; 

I gave him the rose, and we covered him up 
With the cold, black earth, and rode away. 

My heart was bitter—I could not weep. 

He was so young to die so soon— 

He was so gay to lie alone 
Burned by sun and chilled by moon, 

There where the waters are cold and gray, 

There by the slimy ledges of stone— 

But there he must sleep till the sun is gray. 

PRAIRIE CHICKENS 

(The Independent, October 5, 1893.) 

From brown-plowed hillocks 
In early red morning, 

They awoke the tardy sower with this cheerful cry; 

A mellow boom and whoop 
That held a warning— 

A sound that brought the seed-time very nigh. 

The circling, splendid anthem 
Of their greeting * 

Ran like the morning beating of a hundred mellow drums— 
Boom, boom, boom! 

Each hillock kept repeating, 

Like cannon answering cannon when the golden sunset comes. 



102 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


They drum no more, 

Those splendid springtime pickets; 

The sweep of share and sickle has thrust them from the hills, 
They have scattered from the meadow 
Like partridge in the thickets— 

They have perished from the sportsman, who kills, and kills, 
and kills! 

Often now, 

When seated at my writing, 

I lay pencil down and fall to dreaming still 
Of stern, hard days, 

Of the old-time Iowa seeding, 

When the prairie chickens woke me with their war-dance on 
the hill. 


BOY LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE 

I saw the field (as trackless then 
As wood to Daniel Boone) 

Wherein we hunted wolves as men, 

And camped and twanged the green bassoon; 
Not blither Robin Hood’s merry horn 
Than pumpkin pie amid the corn. 

In central deeps the melons lay, 

Slow swelling in the August sun. 

I traced again the narrow way. 

And joined again the stealthy run— 

The jack-o’-lantern’s wraith was born 
Within shadows of the corn. 

O wide, sweet wilderness of leaves! 

O playmates far away! Over thee 
The slow wind like a mourner grieves, 

And stirs the plumed ears fitfully. 

Would we could sound the signal horn 
And meet once more in walls of corn! 



POETS AND POETRY 


103 


MY CABIN 

My cabin cowers in the onward sweep 
Of the terrible northern blast; 

Above its roof the wild clouds leap 
And shriek as they hurry past. 

The snow-waves hiss along the plain; 

Like hungry wolves they stretch and strain; 
They race and ramp with rushing beat; 

Like stealthy tread of myraid feet. 


They pass the door. Upon the roof 
The icy showers swirl and rattle. 

At times the moon, though far aloof, 

Through winds and snows in furious battle 
Shines white and wan within the room— 
Then swift clouds dart across the light, 
And all the plain is lost to sight; 

The cabin rocks, and on my palm 
The sifted snow falls cold and calm. 


God! what a power is in the wind! 

I lay my ear to the cabin-side 
To feel the weight of his giant hands; 

A speck, a fly in the blasting tide 
Of streaming, pitiless icy sands;— 

A single heart with its feeble beat— 

A mouse in the lion’s throat— 

A swimmer at sea—a sunbeam’s mote 

In the strength of a tempest of hail and sleet! 


104 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


COLOR IN' THE WHEAT 

Like liquid gold the wheat-field lies, 

A marvel of yellow and green, 

That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, 

With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheen 
That plays in the golden hair of a girl. 

A cloud flies there— 

A ripple of amber—a flare 
Of light follows after. A swirl 
In the hollows like the twinkling feet 
Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run 
To the westward sun, 

Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. 

I hear the reapers’ far-off hum, 

So faint and far it seems the drone 
Of bee or beetle, seems to come 
From far-off, fragrant, fruity zone, 

A land of plenty, where 
Toward the sun, as hasting there, 

The colors run 
Before the wind’s feet 
In the wheat. 

The wild hawk swoops 
To his prey in the deeps; 

The sunflower droops 

To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps; 

Then, moving in dazzling links and loops, 

A marvel of shadow and shine, 

A glory of olive and amber and wine, 

Runs the color in the wheat. 






Joseph Mills Hanson 

Biogravhical —Born, Yankton, S. D. July 20, 1876. 

Educated Chauncey Hall School, Boston, 1889-90; prepara¬ 
tory department Yankton College, 1890-94; graduate St. 
John’s Military School, Manlius, N. Y., 1897. Married Fran¬ 
ces Lee Johnson, of Holden, Mo., June 2, 1909. (She died 
* April 12, 1912.) Employed by Otis Elevator Co., Sc. Louis, 
Mo., 1900-09. Farming near Yankton. Captain, South Da¬ 
kota National Guards, 1916. Contributor to magazines since 
1900. Author of three standard novels, two histories and 
one book of poems. 

















JOSEPH MILLS HANSON 


One of the younger writers of our state, whose 
literary work—both prose and poetry—will stand 
the supremest test of critics, is Joseph Mills Hanson, 
of Yankton. His writings are all finished produc¬ 
tions. He never neglects any of them at any angle. 

Hanson is not only a writer of fiction, but he is 
a good historian as well. One of his widely read 
books is “With Carrington on the Bozeman Road.” 

Another historical work of Hanson’s that has 
gained wide recognition throughout the northwest, 
not only in home libraries but as a book for public 
school use as well, is his “With Sully Into the Sioux 
Land.” It is an account of the campaign of General 
Sully against the Sioux Indians. 

One of this author’s best books—one showing 
his widest range of research—is “Pilot Knob, The 
Thermopylae of the West.” In the preparation of 
this work he had associated with him Dr. Cyrus A. 
Peterson. 

It is an important addition to the history of the 
Civil War written with unusual charm. 

“The Conquest of Missouri”, from the pen of 
Hanson, excited the admiration of such old Indian 
fighters as Colonel Cody and General Nelson A. 
Miles, and many others who were associated with 
them. Such large dailies as the Chicago Tribune 
and the New York Sun heralded its praises. 

Another refreshing story of Hanson’s is “The 


108 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Trail to El Dorado.” This is an ideal boy’s story, 
based upon the expedition of emigrants under Cap¬ 
tain James L. Fisk, in 1862, from Minnesota across 
northern Dakota and Montana to Walla Walla, 
Washington. It was published serially in 1913 in 
“Boy’s Life,” the official organ of the Boy Scouts. 
That fall McClurg brought it out in book form. 

The newly revived art of pageantry will doubt¬ 
less contribute its quota to literature in the form of 
published texts. The first one published by a South 
Dakota writer is “The Pageant of Yankton” by 
Hanson. 

But we must get away from Hanson as a novel¬ 
ist and historian and study him briefly as a poet. 
The same beautiful literary charm found in his 
prose is at once noticeable in his poetry. He excels 
in narration. His periods attain great power, and 
one cannot read any of them without feeling the 
thrill of their inspiration. 

One of the very best volumes of poems to ap¬ 
pear thus far in the history of the state is his 
“Frontier Ballads,” a volume containing about one- 
fourth of the poems he has written to date, and 
which have been published from time to time in mis¬ 
cellaneous magazines. The poems contained in it 
are however those that are essentially western in 
flavor. 

For both description and narration his “Girl 
of the Yankton Stockade,” taken from “Frontier 
Ballads,” will give us a good example. 


POETS AND POETRY 


109 


THE GIRL OF THE YANKTON STOCKADE 

Yes, it’s pretty, this town. And it’s always been so; 

We pioneers picked it for beauty, you know. 

See the far-rolling bluffs; mark the trees, how they hide 
All its streets, and, beyond, the Missouri, bank-wide, 
Swinging down through the bottoms. Up here on the height 
Is the college. Eh, sightly location? You’re right! 

It has grown you may guess, since I’ve been here; but still 
It is forty-five years since I looked from this hill 
One morning, and saw in the stockade down there 
Our women and children all gathered at prayer, 

While we, their defenders, with muskets in rest 
Lay waiting the Sioux coming out of the West. 

They had swept Minnesota with bullets and brand 
Till her borders lay waste as a desert of sand, 

When we in Dakota awakened to find 

That the red flood had risen and left us behind. 

Then we rallied to fight them,—Sioux, Sissetons, all 
Who had ravaged unchecked to the gates of Saint Paul. 

Is it strange, do you think, that the women took fright 
That morning, and prayed; that men, even, turned white 
When over the ridge where the college now looms 
We caught the first glitter of lances and plumes 
And heard the dull trample of hoofs drawing nigh, 

Like the rumble of thunder low down in the sky? 

Such sounds wrench the nerves when there’s little to see; 

It seemed madness to stay, it was ruin to flee. 

But, handsome and fearless as Anthony Wayne, 

Our captain, Frank Ziebach, kept hold on the rein, 

Like a bugle his voice made us stiffen and thrill — 

“Stand steady, boys, steady! And fire to kill!” 


110 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


So the most of us stayed. But when dangers begin 
You will always find some who are yellow within. 

We had a few such, who concluded to steer 

For the wagon-train, parked in the centre and rear. 

They didn’t stay long! But you’ve heard, I dare say, 

Of the girl who discouraged their running away. 

What, no? Never heard of Miss Edgar? Why sir, 

Dakota went wild with the praise of her! 

As sweet as a hollyhock, slender and tall, 

And brave as the sturdiest man of us all. 

By George, sir, a heroine, that’s what she made, 

When her spirit blazed out in the Yankton stockade! 

The women were sobbing, for every one knew 

She must blow out her brains if the redskins broke through, 

When into their midst, fairly gasping with fright, 

Came the panic-struck hounds who had fled fr«m the fight. 
They trampled the weak in their blind, brutal stride, 

Made straight for the wagons and vanished inside. 

Then up rose Miss Edgar in anger and haste 
And grasped the revolver that hung at her waist; 

She walked to the wagon which nearest her lay, 

She wrenched at the back-flap and tore it away, 

Then aiming her gun at the fellow beneath 
She held it point-blank to his chattering teeth. 

“Go back to your duty,” she cried, “with the men! 

Go back, or you’ll never see sunrise again! 

Do you think, because only the women are here, 

You can skulk behind skirts with your dastardly fear? 

Get out on the ground. Take your gun. About face! 

And don’t look around till you’re back in your place!” 

Well, he minded; what’s more, all the others did, too. 

That girl cleared the camp of the whole scurvy crew, 

For a pistol-point, hovering under his nose, 

Was an argument none of them cared to oppose. 


POETS AND POETRY 


111 


Yet so modest she was that she colored with shame 
When the boys on the line began cheering her name! 

Well, that’s all; just an echo of old border strife 
When the sights on your gun were the guide-posts of life. 
Harsh times breed strong souls, by eternal decree, 

Who can breast them and win—but it’s always struck me 
That the Lord did an extra good job when He made 
Miss Edgar, the girl of the Yankton stockade. 


Likewise, two of his selections, “The Missouri” 
and “The ‘Pauline’ ”, taken from his “River Songs,” 
which constitute the last section of his “Frontier 
Ballads,” are worthy of a place in the literature of 
any state or nation. “The Missouri” is too lengthy 
for reproduction. 

“The ‘Pauline’ ” is so closely woven together 
throughout that it would spoil the narrative to 
strike from it a single stanza, so we give it in full: 

THE “PAULINE” 

A Missouri tramp was the boat “Pauline” 

An’ she ran in ’78; 

She was warped in the hull an’ broad o’ beam, 

An’ her engines sizzled with wastin’ steam, 

An’ a three-mile jog against the stream 
Was her average runnin’ gate. 

Sing ho! fer the rickety “Pauline” maid, 

The rottenest raft in the Bismarck trade, 

An’ her captain an’ her mate. 

The new “North Queen” come up in June, 

Fresh launched from the Saint Joe ways, 

As speedy a craft as the river’d float— 

She could buck the bends like a big-horn goat— 



112 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


An’ she hauled astern o’ that ‘‘Pauline” boat 
On one o’ them nice spring days. 

Sing ho! fer the “Pauline,” puffin’ hard, 

With her captain up on the starboard guard, 
A-watchin’ the “North Queen” raise. 


The “Queen” she drew to the “Pauline’s” wheel 
An’ her captain come a-bow; 

“I’ll give yeh three miles the lead,” says he, 
“An’ beat yeh at that into Old Santee.” 

“Come on,” says the “Pauline’s” chief, “an’ see! 

I’m a-waitin’ for yeh now.” 

Sing ho! fer the captains, grim an’ white 
With the smothered hate of an old-time fight 
An’ the chance fer a new-time row. 


So the sassy “Queen” strung out behind 
An’ let the distance spread, 

Till the “Pauline” headed Ackley’s Bend 
An’ herself come in at the lower end; 

Then her slow-bell speed begun to mend 

Fer the space that the old boat led. 
Sing ho! fer the clerk’s an’ the engineers 
A-swabbin’ the grease on the runnin’ gears 
An’ settin’ the stroke ahead. 


Puff-puff! they went by the flat sand-bars, 

Chug-chug! where the currents spun, 

An’ the “Pauline’s” stokers were not to blame 
Fer her tall, black stacks were spoutin’ flame, 

But the “Queen” crawled up on her, just the same, 
Two miles to the “Pauline’s” one. 

Sing ho! fer the steam-chest’s poundin’ cough, 
A-shakin’ the nuts o’ the guy-rods off 
To the beat o’ the piston’s run. 


POETS AND POETRY 


113 


The “Queen” pulled up on the old boat’s beam 
At the mouth o’ Chouteau Creek, 

An’ the “Pauline’s” captain stamped an’ swore, 
Fer the wood bulged out o’ the furnace door, 

An’ the steam-gauge hissed with the load it bore, 
But she couldn’t do the trick. 

Sing ho! fer the pilot at the wheel 
A-shavin’ the shoals on a twelve-inch keel, 

Enough to scare yeh sick. 


The “Queen” was doin’ her level best 
An’ she wasn’t leadin’ far— 

Fer the “Pauline” stuck like a barber’s leech— 
But she let her siren whistle screech 
When she led the way into Dodson’s Reach, 
Three miles from Santee Bar. 

Sing ho! fer the “Pauline’s” roust about 
A-rollin’ the Bismarck cargo out, 

Big barrels o’ black pine tar. 


The “Pauline’s” chief was a sight to see 

As he stood on the swingin’ stage. 
“I’ll beat that pop-eyed levee-rat 
If he banks his fires with bacon fat; 

Pile in that tar an’ let her scat 

An’ never mind the gauge!” 

Sing ho! fer the boilers singein’ red 
An’ the black smoke vomtin’ overhead 
From the furnace flamin’ rage. 


An’ she gained, that rattle-trap mud-scow did, 
While her wake got white with spray, 
An’ forty rods from the landin’ plank 
Her bow was a-beam o’ the “North Queen’s” flank 
An’ her pilot rushin’ her fer the bank 


114 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


To block the “North Queen’s” way. 

Sing ho! fer the boilers’ burstin’ roar 

As they hurl them loose from the splittin’ floor, 

An’ tear the decks away. 

But the captain bold of the ex-“Pauline,” 

He didn’t stop a bit, 

Fer he flew with the wreckage through the air 
An’ fell on the landin’ fair an’ square, 

An’ the “Queen” run in an’ found him there, 

R’ared up from where he’d lit. 

An’ he yelled: “You rouster, I’ve the race! 

Go git a boat that can keep my pace, 

Yer ‘North Queen’ doesn’t fit!” 

Other charming poems of Hanson’s, published 
as yet only in various magazines, but not preserved 
in book form, are: “Recessional,” a tribute to Bishop 
Biller; “Memory,” a longing for the Jim river; 
“Ballads of Visions,” a psychic treatise on the soul; 
“Ballad of the Fleet,” a description of the world 
cruise made by the United States’ battleship fleet in 
1908; “Christmas Eve,” “Festival Hall,” “Flag 
Day,” “Love Beckoned On,” “Vesper,” “Prairie 
Chicken Time,” “My Pal and I,” and “The Cavalry 
Veteran.” 









Miss Nellie Harrington 

Biographical —Born, Mankato, Minn. Came to Dakota 
when quite young. Graduated from the Dell Rapids high 
school. Began writing prose at an early age. Changed to 
poetry. Works at the jeweler’s trade. Writes for recrea¬ 
tion. Home, Dell Rapids, S. D. 































NELLIE M. HARRINGTON 


To Miss Nellie Harrington, of Dell Rapids, 
credit must be given for fighting her way on the up¬ 
grade of life until she attained literary recognition. 
No sooner had the Sioux City Journal published 
“When Roses Grow With Wheat,” from her pen, 
than a score of periodicals reproduced it, each in 
turn singing praises to the new-found poet. 

Over thirty of her poems have been published, 
some of them with elaborate illustrations. They 
would make a delightful little volume by themselves. 
They cover every phase of life and depict all shades 
of emotions. 

From the collection made for study and com¬ 
parison, six have been selected to depict her general 
style and her best love themes. These follow: 

SHADOWS AND SUNSHINE 

Some tell me that the Prince of Peace 
Dwells nevermore in men; 

They tell me that the world is worse 
Than it has ever been; 

That Christian, charity is cold 
And goodly effort fails; 

More people who do wrong than right, 

And wickedness prevails. 

But as I ponder on the theme 
A vision comes to view; 

Ships laden w'th provisions rare 
And clothing warm and new, 


118 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


For the sufferers that War has made, 
Oppressed with want and care; 

I look on these rich gifts of love 
And lo, the Christ is there. 


WHEN ROSES GROW WITH WHEAT 
I love to take a pleasant stroll 
Along the countryside 
And view each verdant field and knoll; 

An emerald sea spread wide, 

And see the grain that’s growing there, 

In summer’s rain and heat; 

To look around me everywhere, 

When roses grow with wheat. 

I love to send a word of cheer, 

A letter or a flower, 

To make a life seem far less drear. 

In someone’s darkest hour, 

And help to bear another’s load, 

Who plods with weary feet; 

Make bright a life, as seems the road 
When roses grow with wheat. 

The little acts of kindness done 
Are never, never lost; 

They’ll shine as does the golden sun, 

So do not count the cost. 

Good deeds will live, as seeds from sod 
Spring into flowers complete 
And blossom as the fields of God, 

When roses grow with wheat. 


WHICH? 

Were I an artist with talent to paint, 

I would make two pictures pathetic and quaint. 

I would choose me one study from history’s page, 
Of a scene that took place in a far remote age; 




POETS AND POETRY 


119 


With hand true and steady my brush would define 
That much beloved Frenchman, your hero and mine; 

The figure so silent alone in the gloom 
Would be La Fayette at Washington’s tomb. 

The view “over there” seems to breathe with real life, 

Where our soldiers in khaki have entered the strife, 

Who left home and country forever perchance 
To repay the great debt we have long owed to France; 
While there on the canvas majestic and grand, 

Beside the cold marble see a General stand, 

So perfect the face it might almost appear 

One could hear Pershing saying, “La Fayette, we are here.” 

Now the pictures are finished I ask you all, 

Which would you most cherish to hang on the wall? 

In fancy I see them so perfectly done, 

Do you think we could very well spare either one? 

Let’s decide to keep both of the paintings at last, 

The one of the present, the one of the past, 

For we honor two heroes whose zeal did not lag 
When their valor was needed in defense of the flag. 


AUTUMN 

There’s a purple tint on the distant hills, 

There’s a stain like wine on the trees, 

There’s an amber stream that the gold sun spills 
Way down on the sky’s blue seas. 

There’s a shredded cloud of a crimson hue 
As afar in the West it flies. 

And the haze that floats is a saphire blue, 

When Autumn pours her dyes. 

When the cool showers come how the rain-drops sift 
On my roof through the cotton-wood trees, 

And along by the fence is a golden drift 
Of leaves that were hurled by the breeze; 



120 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And the dahlias and asters are freshened again, 

For the chill rain each floweret defies; 

And there’s no time so happy and joyous as then, 
When> Autumn pours her dyes. 

At the old farmstead there’s grain in the bin, 

And the crib is bursting with corn. 

And roots in the cellar the farmer brings in 
Where he harvests his hopes that were born. 

On the rustic arbor the rich grapes shine 
Where each blue-black cluster lies, 

And an oriole sings aloft in the vine 
When Autumn pours her dyes. 

And I steal me away there to joyfully think 
Of God for his goodness and care. 

And from my heart’s well-spring to thankfully drink 
Sweetest draughts that will banish despair, 

For this is no season to give way to gloom, 

No time for earth’s sorrows and sighs, 

But rather to bid brightest hopes ever bloom, 

When Autumn pours her dyes. 

A PRAYER 

A prayer I would offer to Thee, 0 my God, 

A prayer for the aged who through life have trod 
Along its rough pathway, yet somehow they fall 
In need of assistance, yet none hear them call; 

Who are lonely and wretched, ill-clad and forlorn, 

In life’s fading sunset for gone is youth’s morn; 

And strangers ignore them and friends have grown cold, 
Then, Lord, I implore Thee to pity the old. 

It is easy in youth to say you will provide 

For yourself when old age comes whatever betide, 

But reverses will come oftentimes unawares, 

And your energy fails you and your heart oft despairs 


POETS AND POETRY 


121 


And you find yourself stranded on life’s sea and lost 
On its turbulent waves with your bark tempest-tossed, 
And you feel yourself sinking and you’ve lost your hold; 
Hear for those Lord my pleading and comfort the old. 

Yes, pity the old, Lord, but pity them more, 

Who fail to respond when the aged implore, 

When the mind is so narrow and so warped is the soul, 
They forget to assist the infirm or condole, 

And all noble impulse is lost in their greed 

For earth’s transient glory that the poor they ne’er heed, 

When love must give place to the heart’s lust for gold, 

’Tis such need thy pity more Lord than the old. 


THE PIONEER 

0, there’s always the hero whom people will laud 
In literature, music and art, 

Whose deeds great and noble the crowd will applaud, 
Who plays in life’s drama a part. 

There’s the statesman, philosopher, actor or bard 
Whose fame you may heartily cheer, 

But there’s one with a purpose that’s lofty though hard, 
Whom I praise, he’s the brave pioneer. 

He is lithesome of limb and of sinew he’s strong 
And he toils with a skilled callous hand, 

As his plow breaks the sod into deep furrows long 
Or his ax clears of timber the land. 

And were I an author who searched among men, 

For one whom fond words might endear, 

A master-piece richly would flow from my pen, 

Entitled the Bold Pioneer. 

His view is resplendent with silvery streams, 

Blue skies, huge rocks and green fields, 

And the air with the birds and butterfly teems, 

And flowers that the prairie oft yields. 



122 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And were I a minstrel whose joy it should be 
To sing in a manner sincere, 

I would render a ballad of sweet melody, 

On the scenes of the lone pioneer. 

The house on the homestead may be queer and crude, 
Constructed of logs or of sod, 

But with health and contentment ’neath its shelter so rude, 
He is blessed with the goodness of God. 

And were I an artist with colors and brush 
This picture would plainly appear, 

The scene that I painted of sunset’s sweet blush 
On the home of the true pioneer. 

Through hardship, privation, trial and care, 

His heart is courageous and true, 

And seldom he’s known to give way to despair, 

Or falter his duty to do. 

And were I a sculptor a statue would stand, 

Inscribed with a splendid career, 

Where chisel and mallet with deft master-hand, 

Carved the fame of the staunch pioneer. 

For whenever the morning exultingly trips 
With the sun’s golden globe in her arms, 

And pours from its depths the sunshine that drips 
On cities, orchards and farms. 

There science, commerce and industry lives, 

And for these and their pathway made clear. 

Our civilization with thankfulness gives 
Due praise to our loved pioneer. 




Biographical —Born, North Stonington, Conn., Feb. 2, 
1868. Educated at Yale (A. B. 1884). Admitted Nebraska 
bar, 1887. V-P State Bank of Harrison, Neb., 1890-93. 
Teacher. South Dakota schools, 1894-99. Identified with N. 
Y. Mutual Life Insurance Co. since that time. Married 
Josephine C. Etter, June 15. 1903. Lecturer. Author of 
two volumes of poetry and one of prose. Present address, 
Columbus, Ohio. 











































CHARLES ELMER HOLMES 




One of the most prolific writers which the state 
lias produced thus far—by birth within her borders 
or by adoption, either temporary or permanently— 
is the accomplished Charles E. Holmes. He has 
excelled in both fields of literary endeavor—prose 
and poetry—, and in addition thereto, he is one of 
the most versatile public speakers that has graced 
the platform of the state. 

Holmes is a typical literary genius. Most 
writers are not successful public speakers. The 
thoughtful, considerate rigid-moving mind found in 
the writer is usually at variance with the dash, the 
keenness, the sarcasm, the wit and the ready speech 
of the orator. Not so with Holmes. He embodies 
the fundamental requisites of both, happily inter¬ 
mingled, and strengthened by an inviting person¬ 
ality and a pleasing voice. These give him a complete 
mastery of the lecture field as well. 

The production on which his reputation must 
rest as a prose writer is his “Birds of the West.” 
In this book he plainly forsook the prose style of 
the average writer and launched boldly into a style 
of his own. These articles on birds were first pub¬ 
lished in serial form in the Sioux Falls Daily Argus- 
Leader. They struck such a responsive chord in the 
western heart that hundreds of people wrote their 
author to preserve them in book form. This he did. 

But it is as a poet that we desire to discuss 



126 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Holmes. He is a master of all kinds of styles. He 
seems to pass through a multiplicity of moods, and 
while in each of them, to be easily at his best. He 
lowers you into a pit of dismal grief and then carries 
you on wings of imaginative fantasy to the siren 
heights of rapturous ecstasy. Vacillating between 
these two extremes he paints in musical rhythm 
every phase of life. As a descriptive poet his works 
have a fine coloring; but it is due to him to say that 
his strongest traits lie in his power of implied sug¬ 
gestion. This power is abundantly set forth in the 
following dainty love scene: 

LOVE’S STORY 

Down in the shade of a leafy nook, 

In the bend of a winding-, woodland brook, 

The sunshine lighted our little book, 

As we both read the same sweet story. 

And as we came to the closing line 
Of a dainty love-song, half-divine, 

I glanced, and her wistful eyes met mine 
And we both read the same sweet story. 

Holmes lives close to nature. He does not “see 
through a glass darkly,” but he sees things as they 
are. Wandering casually along the sunny slopes of 
the Sioux hills his keen eye never fails to catch the 
bending nod of the daisy (day’s eye) as it obeys 
the spring zephyr and expresses its, “How do you 
do?” Neither does he miss the perfect coloring of 
the leaves, the bird’s nests on the forked limbs, nor 
the varied insects creeping about in the trees. 



POETS AND POETRY 


127 


Holmes hears. He listens to the voice of Dame Na¬ 
ture; and in his soul he feels a quickening response 
to the unfolding bud, the healing wound on the tree, 
and the crackling of the grasses round about as they 
rise from their winter’s bed to resume their green 
hue as of old. He reveals this trait of himself 
beautifully in the following lines: 

NATURE 

Nature, devoted priestess, ever finds 

Some new-born wonder in the meanest clod; 

And feasts our eyes on beauty and our minds 
On truths that bear the autograph of God. 

Who keeps in touch with nature and adores 
The faultless working of her plans prepense, 

Is more than nature’s child, for he explores 
The widest range of soul intelligence. 


Holmes’ delicate sentiment, his poetic diction, 
and his artistic touch are nowhere more plainly 
revealed in his writings than in his charming little 
two stanza lullaby: 

LULLABY 

Sleep, sleep, little ones, sleep; 

Under the waves of your fairy-like curls; 

Little eyes weighted with baby-bright blisses, 

Little cheeks freighted with lily-light kisses; 

Sleep, little girls. 

Dream, dream, little ones, dream; 

Sail far away from the region of tears; 

Little eyes weary of constant surprise, 

Little cheeks teary from weary-worn eyes; 

Dream, little dears. 



128 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Again, much of his literary strength lies in his 
sympathetic nature. He possesses all the finer attri¬ 
butes of a poet’s heart. His sympathy finds beauti¬ 
ful expression in the following selection: 

ON BROKEN WING 

In a dark highway, flitting in the snow, 

A little bird lay chilled and suffering; 

Chirping unheard, unseen in pain it fell 
On broken wing. 

There have been souls, children of heavenly song, 
That have stayed in their wild, dreamy flight, 
And fall’n unseen, unknown, as silently 
In the dark night. 

Yet someone pities them and someone loves 
Them, for the simple tribute that they bring 
To Him that marketh e’en the sparrow’s fall 
On broken wing. 

Note the difference between the preceding poem 
and the one that follows. Observe the change of 
mood, the vacillation. Although not a father him¬ 
self, he has the deepest possible appreciation of 
childhood. This appreciation is tastily set forth in 
the following poem: 

TO A LITTLE FRIEND 

It’s astonishing, yet statisticians say, 

There are born a million babies every day; 

There are brownies, blacks and yellows, 

Right cunning little fellows, 

Teenty-taunty little heathen far away. 



POETS AND POETRY 


129 


I am singing of the babes of fairer hue, 

The dimpled little darlings such as you; 

When you left your home above, 

A tiny messenger of love— 

A little star came peeping through the blue. 

Oh, these baby lumps of freshness from on high, 
Little chest-expanding crooners from the sky— 
Bright and happy angel-faces 
Sent to occupy the places 
Of little people such as Pa and I. 

Little minstrels of the stilly, chilly night, 

Making papa promenade the stage in white, 

Singjng rasping lullabys 

That would ope your dreamy eyes, 

No matter if old Somnus glued ’em tight. 

But you’re worth the weary hours of toil and pain; 
And your baby-song is never sung in vain; 

For it makes the home-life dearer 
And it draws your papa nearer, 

And it makes him like a little child again. 


As a descriptive poet, Holmes is very much at 
his ease. His description of the Bad Lands attests 
his proficiency in this line. It has been used repeat¬ 
edly by trained elocutionists in their recitals. 

THE BAD LANDS 

A stillness sleeps on the broken plain 
And the sun beats down with a fiery rain 
On the crust that covers the sand that is rife 
With the bleaching bones of the old world life. 



130 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


’Tis a sea of sand and over the waves 
Are the wind-blown tops of the Cyclops' caves; 

And the mountain sheep and the antelopes 
Graze cautiously over the sun-burnt slopes. 

And here in the sport of the wild wind’s play, 

A thousand years are as yesterday; 

And a million more in these barren lands 
Have run themselves in the shifting sands. 

Oh, the struggle and strife and the passion and pain 
Since the bones lay bleached on the sandy plain, 
And a stillness fell on the shifting sea, 

And a silence that tells of eternity! 

Holmes’ best poems are found in his little 
volume entitled “Happy Days.” Among them are 
“The Cowboy’s Sweetheart,” and “The Cake Walk,” 
two selections that are general favorites with public 
readers : also “The Hymn of the Prairie,” “Uncle 
Sam,” “A Song of Dakota” and many other pieces 
worth one’s time to study. 

In 1905, he suddenly thrust upon the market 
another volume of poems, all centering about the 
divorce evil, which at that time was at high tide in 
Sioux Falls. The title of this little book, “From 
Court to Court,” is very suggestive of its contents. 

One, only, of these poems is sufficient to give 
the reader an insight into the real character of the 
volume: 

WHAT COULD THE POOR GIRL DO? 

They married, as so many do, 

Before they were acquainted, 

When Bill discovered Geraldine 
Was not as she was painted; 



POETS AND POETRY 


131 


And she discovered Bill was not 
The boy of blush unseen, 

And so they had their quarrels; 
Poor little Geraldine! 

What could the poor girl do? 

In books and art they disagreed: 
She read the best they made: 

Such stuff as James and Browning; 
Bill always read George Ade: 

He was very fond of Dooley; 

She leaned a bit to Ibsen; 

He loved the comic supplement; 

She loved the girls of Gibson. 

What could the poor girl do? 

On music and the theatre 
They quarreled every day: 

He liked the Cherry sisters; 

She doted on Duse; 

She played Chopin and Shuman 
And denounced it as a crime 
When Bill sang “Hiawatha” 

And “The Good Old Summer Time.” 
What could the poor girl do? 

Her dog she named De Peyster, 

Bill had a fighting pup: 

One day Fitz got excited, 

And he ate De Peyster up: 

She named the baby Reginald 
He wanted it named Chawles; 

That settled it: He went his way: 
She visited Sioux Falls. 

What could the poor girl do? 



Charles Bracy Lawton 

Biographical —Born in Allen County, Ind., June 27, 1867. 
During babyhood removed with parents to South Bend, Ind. 
Educated in the public schools of that place. During his 
latter ’teens, the family removed to South Dakota and set¬ 
tled on a farm six miles east of Scotland. Later, they re¬ 
moved to Scotland. Married Marie Wenzlaff in 1894. Settled 
on his parents’ old farm on the James River, east of Scot¬ 
land. Father of two children—a boy and a girl. Killed by 
an accident, January 20, 1899. 



CHARLES BRACY LAWTON 

We are now to consider another poet with a 
poet’s heart—one whose songs emanated not alone 
from the mind but also from that hidden some¬ 
thing in the inward being, which we are wont to 
style the human soul. The full roundness of his lit¬ 
erary conception, the delicacy of his sentiments, the 
choice selection of his words, and, in general, his 
literary execution—all combine to give his writings 
an artistic finish and a high rank. His poems are 
nearly all written in a minor key—death, fate, con¬ 
templation. 

It is indeed regrettable that one of such great 
literary promise should have been stricken down at 
so young an age when the realization of his literary 
aspirations had but scarcely begun. And yet, during 
this brief career, he gave to us a complete volume 
of poems, entitled “Lest You Forget,” published by 
his mother after his death, which bespeaks uncom¬ 
promisingly the great literary future that awaited 
him. All who have read his literary productions 
agree that he takes high rank among South Dakota 
poets. 

To his happy marriage two children were born. 
The girl died in infancy. His first inspiration to 
write poetry came to him on the first anniversary 
of her death. With a heart reeking with sorrow— 
he dipped his inspired pen into the heart of a tomb 
and left to the world this touching echo of his own 
soul: 


134 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


A LITTLE MOUND 
I stood one day beside a little mound 
I knew so well that lies upon the hill. 

And wondered long, as one grief-stricken will— 

Had agony before reached depths profound 
As these? Had yet one known such pain or found 
A life as spiritless, a heart as chill 
As mine had been since nature subtly still 
Enwrapped the mystery of death around 
That little form of hers, my first-born child? 

This punishment seemed all that I could bear, 

But now, when I another hopeless find, 

Weeping for one grown nameless and defiled, 

I think of my own dear one lying there, 

And feel that death to me was almost kind. 

One would almost think that Lawton predicted 
his own fate, for in the opening lines of “God’s 
Plan,” he says: 

We fill a place in God’s own plan, divine this life we live, 
The mystery pervading it a charm to life doth give, 

While we seek through the unstarred night the solving of our 
state, 

Omnipotent, an unseen hand doth build for each his fate. 

As his life-blood ebbed away, after his unfor¬ 
tunate accident, he left behind on his desk an un¬ 
published poem, “A Prayer”—it was his last. In 
it he seems to feel intuitively that something extra¬ 
ordinary is about to happen, but instead of fasten¬ 
ing the suspicion upon himself his longings turn 
toward his baby boy. 




POETS AND POETRY 


135 


A PRAYER 

Make me to bow, to bend, to break, 

To lose my pride and if needs be 

Tear thou my breast for thy name’s sake, 
But leave, O God, these things to me: 

Leave thou the little face of trust, 

The chubby arms that faithful creep 

About my neck—O, if thou must 
Take all; but these, God, let me keep. 

Were those lips dump I could not hear, 
Were those eyes set, I could not see; 

Take what thou wilt, though priceless, dear, 
But leave, O God, these things to me. 


The thought of death seems ever to have been 
on his mind when writing. Every poem reveals it. 
The following are only a few of the many sad ones 
that he wrote: 

SWEET DEATH 

Ah, now I know that you who seemed so cold. 

That you of whom I felt the deepest awe 
And dread, year after year; in whom I saw 
A foe to bear me to a tomb where mould, 

Decay, and dampened clods would me infold, 

Are, after all, my friend. There is no flaw 
Today I would amend in nature’s law 
Which put me in your strange and subtle hold. 

With faith grown out of hope, I place my hand 
Thus willingly in yours, with no regret 
That you have come. To gain the unknown land 
Which you conceal, I gladly pay the debt; 

For this weak, flagging clay no more is manned 
To brave life’s way, and timely we have met. 



136 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


THE END 

I hear the dripping from the eaves, 

The eddying of fallen leaves, 

I hear the creaking of a door, 

The snapping of the drying floor; 

In all, I hear you coming dear, 

I think each moment that I hear 

Your step, your words of greeting sound, 

But you are in the death-shroud wound. 

I hear them say that you are dead, 

I to an open grave am led,— 

I hear the coffin lowering now, 

And, too, some words, and then somehow, 
The falling earth upon the lid 
Beneath which your dear face is hid. 

The hour has come, poor heart, to break, 
To ache, to ache, to ache, to ache. 


It would be unfair to the young poet not to 
publish in full “God’s Plan,” a verse of which was 
previously quoted. 

GOD’S PLAN 

We fill a place in God’s own plan, divine this life we live, 
The mystery pervading it a charm to life doth give. 

While we seek through the unstarred night the solving of our 
state, 

Omnipotent, an unseen hand doth build for each his fate. 

We do not fret when autumn shades are growing on the 
leaves, 

Nor that a scheming spider for his prey a network weaves, 
We know the summer foliage has served its useful days, 

We know the plan of insect life is just in all its ways. 



POETS AND POETRY 


137 


More wonderful is HOW we live than that we have an end, 
And whence we came, life’s mystery doth all these things 
transcend; 

But yet we stand and ask to know the working of the plan 
Which God alone is justly, surely working out for man. 

As children do we stand and weep beside a mother’s knee, 
And let a soft caress dispel the fear we cannot see, 

We give each day to human hands our confidence and trust, 
But hesitate to give to His, which only can be just. 

We shape our deeds by mortal signs and trust a human 
tongue, 

While He hath in a key divine through endless ages rung 
The music of the wandering wind, the listless wave of sea, 
And sung for man’s discordant ear harmonious symphony. 

The power which placed the fixed stars above the oceans blue, 
Which keeps the fieldmouse through the snow and wets the 
flowers with dew 

Which grows the wee-faced daisy where it guides the planets 
true, 

Will shape for you and me, my lad, our course, and truly, too. 




Mary Frances Martin 

Biographical —Born, Illinois, 1881. Came to Dakota, 
1888. Finished Eighth Grade, Tripp, S. D., schools. At¬ 
tended high school, Joliet, Ill., 1897-98; St. Mary’s Academy, 
same city, 1901-02. Passed Teachers’ Examination, but never 
taught. Returned to South Dakota. At home with parents 
on farm near Tripp, S. D. Furnishes poems regularly to 
newspapers. 



























MARY FRANCES MARTIN 


A dainty little volume of verse is one printed 
locally, entitled “The Wind Song and Other Poems,” 
by Mary Frances Martin, of Hutchinson county. 
Miss Martin sings with a touch that is very artistic. 
She is philosophical, historical, prolific; yet, withal, 
she apparently does her best work in Irish brogue. 

“The Wind Song” is a production of consider¬ 
able length, containing an Introduction, a Response, 
and forty-five stanzas ranging from eight to sixteen 
lines each. Two of her best poems are herein given 
in their entirety: 

“COME PATRICK’S DAY IN THE MORNIN’.” 

Whisht! me eyes are dim wid tear-drops 
Come wid lonesomeness the day. 

An’ me heart is sore wid achin’ 

For a time that’s far away. 

An’ I’m dreamin’, dreamin’, dreamin’, 

An’ forever do I see 

The holy hills of Ireland, 

Lifted from the shinin’ sea. 

Sure ’tis fifty years come May-day 

Since I left the dear ol’ land. 

Wid Shane O’Neil beside me 
An’ his gold ring on me hand. 

We were little more than childer 
But God blessed us man an’ wife, 

An’ sint us out brave-heated 

To face the great world’s strife. 


140 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Faith the years were long for striving 
An’ for keepin’ back the tear, 

Sure meself is nearer cryin’ 

Thin I’ve been in many a year. 

An’ the lonesomeness that’s on me 
Come on in a sudden way, 

From a tune a b’y was whistlin’ 

In the street this Patrick’s Day. 

He waked me up this mornin’ 

Wid his whistle sweet an’ shrill, 

That tuck me back in fancy 
To the bog-land an’ the hill. 

An’ I see me brother smilin’ 

As he waves his hand to me, 

An’ his whistle, ‘‘Whisht, God’s blessin’, 
It is Patrick’s Day ma chree.” 

Patrick’s Day in Holy Ireland, 

Wid the frost white on the bog, 

Wid the golden sun-beams glintin’ 

Through the faintest wreath in fog. 
Wid the whole world’s jewelled beauty 
Spread our eager eyes before, 

An’ Croaghpatrick’s holy shadow 
Reachin’ to me father’s door. 

We were up before ’twas daylight, 
Hughie, Eileen, Maeve, an’ I, 

Stealin’ softly through the boreen 
While the stars were in the sky. 

Up Croaghpatrick’s windin’ footpaths 
For it ever was our way, 

To pluck the leaves of Shamrock, 

Just as dawn turned to day. 


POETS AND POETRY 


141 


There’s a thrill of music liltin’ 

Through the dawn-light grey an’ dim, 
Hughie’s whistle, sure the thrushes 
Learnt their melody of him. 

An’ the golden sunrise never 
Shone on fairer heart than he 
An’ his whistle—“Whisht, God’s blessin’, 
It is Patrick’s day ma chree.” 


Each with precious treasure laden 
Home we’d turn our foot-steps then, 
Past the forge of Lantie Rogan 
At the bottom of the glen. 

An’ we’d linger long beside the forge 
(Despite our mother’s warn’n,), 

In hopes of hearin’ Lantie sing 

“Come Patrick’s Day in the mornin’.” 


Lantie’s v’ice, sure ’twas the invy 
Iv the parish far an’ near, 

Sure the likes av it in Dublin 
At the Castle ye’d not hear. 

An’ I’ve heard my father tell it— 
(Be God’s mercy on his head) — 
Lantie’s singin’ “Faugh-a-Ballah” 
Sure was fit to wake the dead. 


0 me heart, the long years lyin’ 
“Twixt the times that were an’ this, 
’Tis no wonder that the ol’ days 
From America I miss. 

Thrue me childer love ol’ Erin, 

(Sure they learnt it at me knee) 

But the sunrise on Croaghpatrick 
Is a sight they never see. 



142 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


But there’s hearts here just as eager, 

An’ there’s blood that beats as high, 

Sure I hear the music liltin’ 

An’ I see thim marchin’ by— 

Each one wearin’ the green ribbon, 

An’ their banners proudly wave, 

An’ it takes me back to Erin. 

Hugh, Eileen, an’ bonny Maeve. 

Whisht, me eyes are dim wid tear-drops 
Come from lonesomeness the day, 

An’ the heart of me is achin’ 

For a time that’s far away. 

An’ the lonesomeness that’s on me 
Come on sudden, without warnin’, 

Whin a b’y came by me whistlin’ 

‘Come Patrick’s Day in the mornin’.” 

PEDLAR DAN 

Meself is the wan has the welkim sweet 
From ind to ind o’ th’ year, 

I am niver wantin’ a bite or sup 
Or a kindly word o’ cheer. 

It is—“Yerra, but where have y’u bin the while” 
An’ —“Be takin’ life aisy, man,” 

Sure niver a cottage door is shut 
In the face iv Pedlar Dan. 

Through th’ lin’th an’ bre’th o’ Wicklow 
Stravagin’ day by day, 

An’ th’ pedlar’s pack upon me back 
Is payin’ me honest way. 

It’s not for th’ bit o’ goold I airn 
That I choose to be rovin’ free, 

But the kindly welkim I never lack 
That is betther nor goold to me. 


POETS AND POETRY 


143 


“If ye would go to Dublin city”— 
Says sthrangers, now an’ thin, 
“Ye’d have more o’ goold an’ comfort 
Thin ye get here in the glin.” 
Mayhap o’ goold would be plinty 
But I am not needin’ more, 

When I know there’s a kindly welkim 
Waitin’ at ivery door. 


An’ I’m thinkin’ twould be cold comfort 
The city’s sthreets would yield, 

An’ me achin’ to see th’ childer 
Come rompin’ acrost th’ field. 

Sure I wouldn’t give place to th’ king, no less, 
Whin th’ summer skies are o’er me, 

Wid an ould clay cutty bechune me teeth, 

An’ th’ lin’th o’ th’ day afore me. 


Through th’ lin’th an’ bre’th o’ Wicklow 
Stravagin’ from year to year, 

Aitin’ th’ bread o’ kindness, 

An’ sharin’ a hearty cheer. 

I am well contint to spind me days 
Where the kindly people love me. 

An’ will sleep at last in th’ Wicklow hills 
Wid th’ daisy quilt above me. 

Other good poems of hers are: “The First 
Mistletoe,” “The Tryst at Bethlehem” and “Wasted 
Arrows.” 

In the earlier editions of this book, Miss Martin was classified under 
the pen-name, “Conal Cearnach,” taken from an old Irish King Later, 
she discovered a writer in Ireland was using the same pen-name, and so 
she dropped it. 



Mrs. Flora Shufelt-Rivola 

Biographical —Born, Toledo, Ohio, Dee. 1, 1881. Came to 
Dakota, 1884. Educated, rural schools, Yankton high school 
and Yankton College Academy. Married Charles E. Rivola 
July 22, 1903. Mother of three children—two girls and one 
boy. Won poetical contest conducted by St. Paul Pioneer 
Press, 1910. 






MRS. FLORA SHUFELT-RIVOLA 


A new poet who suddenly appeared above the 
literary horizon at the opening the year, 1915, and 
who found immediate recognition, is Mrs. Flora 
Shufelt- Rivola, of Yankton. Her poems are univer¬ 
sal in their application; so much so that she has 
found a ready sale for them among the leading pub¬ 
lishers of the United States. Only a few of the 
many she has written are herein given. 

THE AWAKENING 

(From the “Survey,” May, 1918.) 

“Slave of the wheel of labor! What to him 
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?” 

—From “THE MAN WITH THE HOE.’ 

The Man with the Hoe has lifted his eyes 
And has caught the swing of the Pleiades! 

The so-long-undreamed miracle 

Has straightened his back, put strength in his knees: 
The God-spark in him smouldered—flashed— 

He caught the roll of Freedom’s drums; 

Then up from the centuries’ stoop he rose 
And with lifted face to his own he comes. 

No more will he walk with the sagging step, 

No more will earth masters bend his will; 

He has visioned his own soul’s majesty 
And he waits before it hushed and still: 

Henceforth he will captain the ships of state, 

To the gates of power he has found the keys— 

For the Man with the Hoe has lifted his eyes 
And has caught the swing of the Pleiades! 



146 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


LITTLE MAN OF YESTERDAY 

(Springfield, Mass., Republican.) 

Little, little lad of mine, 

With your show of courage fine; 
Oh! ’tis brave I’d have you be. 

But your mother’s eyes can see 
Deep inside, all hid away, 

Things your lips may never say. 

Little man of yesterday, 

Singing as you march away; 

The good God who knows all things 
Knows the hearts of men and kings; 
God and mother see the ache, 

Though so brave a part you take. 

Little man of yesterday, 

Common folks have had to pay 
In the coin of pain and tears, 

For the wars, all through the years. 
Still our lips will smile today, 

Smile, the while you march away. 

Oh! I wonder, does the king 
Know how great, how grave a thing 
’Tis to take my little lad; 

All the child your mother had, 

Must you go the long, long way, 
Little man of yesterday? 


IN THE AFTERGLOW 

(The Christian Herald.) 

Mother o’ mine, in the afterglow 
Of mothering years, I love you so; 
For loving me e’er life I knew, 

When next your heart a new life grew; 



POETS AND POETRY 


147 


Loving- me on into fair childhood, 

When I so little understood 

The long, hard way we all must go, 

Mother o’ mine, I love you so. 

Loving me, too, when life so sweet 
Tempted my wayward, girlish feet 
Away from paths of truth and right 
To paths that lead to sin’s dark night; 
Winning me back with loving tone 
To ways that you had made your own 
By struggle and stress and pain and prayer, 
By love’s own cords you held me there. 

Mother o’ mine, ’tis mine to take 

The burdensome load, the stress, the ache, 

That come in motherhood’s fair years, 

The joy, the pain, the love, the tears; 

’Tis mine to give what you gave me. 
Mother o’ mine, I would faithful be 
To the highest note in the song you taught 
My girlish lips, the music fraught 
With all the mother hopes and fears, 

That fill to the brim the mothering years. 

Mother o’ mine, in the afterglow 
Of motherhood’s years, I thank you so 
For gifts to me from out your heart. 

At thoughts that rise my hot tears start; 
God give me ways to make you know 
How great is my love before you go 
Away to rest from your mothering; 

I would remove life’s every sting, 

And give you rest in the afterglow, 

For, mother o’ mine, I love you so. 


148 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


IF WHEN I PASS 

(Sioux City Journal.) 

If when I pa§s, these things of me be said: 

She soothed an ache, she staunched a wound that bled; 
Her heart was ever open to the day, 

She went in humble service on her way, 

Giving to this worn one a cheery smile, 

Or ease a sister’s burden one hard mile, 

That threatened more than one lone heart could bear; 
With those that hungered, she her bread did share. 
In withered bloom beheld the seeds of life; 

Her faith reached out unto the end of strife. 

She held high courage in Despair’s own face, 

And to her Father whispered daily grace 
For life and love, for trials that make strong: 

Unto the morning sunshine added song. 

She planted flowers and, then, shared the bloom; 
Within her home she ever could find room 
For such as needed succor for the night. 

Within her window kept a beacon light, 

That spoke of hope to those who walk the dusk. 

She made a feast for him, who, eating husk, 

Came to himself and turned again back home; 

And sent a prayer out after those that roam: 

If when I pass, these things of me be said 
I shall not need more flowers for my bed. 

E’en while I write the human heart denies 
The citadel whereto I lift my eyes; 

Yet do I know a fount of strength awaits 

The heart with courage strong to storm the gates. 


POETS AND POETRY 


149 


PROGRESS 

(From “The Masses” Magazine, New York.) 

1 was a mountain girl, 

I know, now, they call us poor mountain whites: 

There is a school in the valley, a college, where my little 
sister goes; 

I was twelve years old when she was born 
And in four more years I was married, 

Married—but I had no courtship—no romance: 

I must have had beauty once, 

They say I looked like Sue does now. 

I could read a little and Sue has brought me books. 

Books that have interpreted to me the unsatisfied, longing 
ache of the years. 

I married a bloke, like my father and my brother; 

When he asked me to mate up with him it was only that— 
As an animal might seek his kind— 

The birds and flowers and youth and love and spring 
Meant nothing to him; 

And I, unknowing, answered the call of our animal selves 
and married him; 

Now, when I am coming to know through books and Sue, 
How it all might have been, I am faded and old and coarse; 
My teeth are yellow and my hands hard with callous; 

My cheecks have brown patches where once the roses of 
spring bloomed. 

Sue has a follower, a young Professor of the school, 

Who has taught her with his fine manner and easy grace tc 
be a lady; 

He reads poetry to her and brings her roses with dew on 
them, 

And pictures—one a madonna and child— 

I look and look at it and then I look at my own daughter, 
And think of the mother I might have been 
And the father I might have given her. 


150 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Tonight I shall tell her of my late awakening 
And my dreams for her; 

The callous on these hands shall grow thicker with toil, 
That she may go to the college in the valley, 

And learn to be a lady. 


In the summer of 1916, the St. Paul Pioneer 
Press conducted a Sunday poetical contest, to which 
all writers had voluntary access. Following is the 
poem submitted by Mrs. Rivola, which was awarded 
first prize: 

LET ME LIVE 
Let me not moan if life 

Shall break me on its wheel; 

Let me rejoice that I 

May share the things men feel: 

The ecstacy of pain, 

The woe of utter night, 

The clinging hand of fear, 

The groping for a light. 

If I be spared the knife 
Of pain, I have not known 
Or shared the life of him 
Who prayed at night alone 
In dark Gethsemane; 

Then let me joy that I 
Have found the worthiness 
To stand beneath the sky 

That threatens me with ill 
And still wait, unafraid, 

The coming of the dawn, 

Though it may be long delayed: 

Then may I say I live; 

I drink the cup, I lose, 

Yet in the losing, gain 

The heights. This would I choose. 





Doane Robinson 

Biographical —Born, near Sparta, Wis., Oct. 19, 1856. 
Attended country school. Migrated to Minnesota. Taught 
school for five winters. Studied law at Wisconsin Law 
school, 1883. Established himself in practice of law at Wa¬ 
tertown, S. D. Gave up law for editorial work. Published 
“Monthly South Dakotan” for a number of years. Married 
Jennie Austin, of Leon, Wis., 1884. Father of two sons. 
Author of a number of prose works and of one volume of 
poems. State Historian for South Dakota since January 23, 
1901. Editor of all our State Historical reports. Honorary 
degree of Master of Arts conferred upon him in 1911 by the 
University of South Daokta. In 1922, Yankton College gave 
him the degree of Do'ctor of Letters (D. Litt.) 






DOANE ROBINSON 


Hon. Doane Robinson must be dealt with in the 
field of poetry and prose, as he has been prolific in 
both. His verse is both dialect and legitimate. 
His early poetry was first published in the Century 
Magazine, the Arena Magazine, the Great Divide 
and other periodicals. Later, these poems were col¬ 
lected and published by the Gazette Printing Com¬ 
pany, of Yankton, in a volume of verse entitled, 
“Midst The Coteaus of Dakota.” It contains forty- 
five of Robinson’s poems that were written and pub¬ 
lished prior to 1900. The book is artistically illu¬ 
strated by Edwin M. Waterbury. From it have 
been culled the four following poems as indicative 
of Robinson’s style—two dialect poems and two non¬ 
dialect ones. While the first two are somewhat 
reminiscent and filled with mirth, yet in his “Peace 
Hymn of the United States,” he mounts to consid¬ 
erable power. 

IN SOUTH DAKOTA 

, \ 
Takin’ an’ layin’ by all jokes, 

We’re lots smarter than other folks 

In South Dakota. 

Had the advantage, plumb from the start, 

Bein’, that most of us come here smart; 

And rubbin’ agin the itinerant air 
Has polished us up until I declare 
Most of us fellows have come out so nice, 

We’re smarter than lightnin’ and slicker than ice 

In South Dakota. 


154 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Just about all of us come out here 
To run for the senate. It does appear 
That rather than let opportunities slip, 

Some would put up with the governorship; 
And if there’s a fault in our glorious state,— 
A conviction that’s growin’ upon me of late,— 
It’s when there’s a seat in the senate to spare, 
Some of us good men don’t get our share 

In South Dakota. 

But we’ve got big hearts and open hands 
And we never sulks, and we never stands 
A tryin’ to hinder, by some low muss, 

A man that is smarter than any of us, 

But all of us hurries to recognize 
The boss-smart fellow that wins the prize; 
Then we goes on seedin’ our black-muck lands 
While the buntin’s sing and the gulls fly low, 
A watchin’ the gophers plunder the corn, 

And the nestin’ robins come and go 
With critters hair, by the barb-fence torn;— 
Brown smoke rolls up from the blazin’ slough 
Where last year’s grass chokes back the new, 
And the wild cock’s rumble fills the air 
From the hills where smoky shadows mope, 
And out by the barn the stock-hogs swear, 
And the spring calf tugs at its picket rope; 
While the summer grows ’til the harvest’s due 
And the wheat turns gold, and the corn is fair, 
But our biggest yield is the crop of hope, 

In South Dakota. 


HERDING 

No end of rich green medder land 
Spicked out with every kind of poseys. 
Es fer as I kin understand 
They’s nothin’ else on earth so grand 
Es just a field of prairy roseys, 




POETS AND POETRY 


155 


Mixed up with blue, gold-beaded plumes 
Of shoestring flowers and peavey blooms. 
Take it a warm, sunshiny day 
When prairies stretch so fer away 
They’re lost at last in smoky gray, 

And hulkin’ yoke-worn oxen browse 
Around the coteaus with cows,— 

The tipsey, stag’rin’ day-old calf 
Mumbles a bleat and slabbers a laugh,— 
And yearlin’ steers so round and slick 
Wade in the cool and sparklin’ crick, 

While cute spring bossies romp and play 
With Ponto, in the tall slough hay, 

Yeh picket out the gentle Roany, 

Yer knowin’, faithful, herdin’ pony, 

And tumblin’ down upon yer back 
Where gay, sweet-smelling beauties bide 
In posey beds, three counties wide, 

You take a swig of prairie air, 

With which old speerits can’t compare, 
And think, and plan, and twist, and rack 
Yer brains, to work some scheme aroun’ 

To get a week to spend in town. 


PEACE HYMN OF THE UNITED STATES 

Thou who has fattened us with wealth and steeled our arms 
with power, 

Choose us thy sentinels, to watch from Freedom’s signal 
tower, 

Give us that gentle spirit which ennobles and uplifts: 

Teach us to use for righteousness thy fair imperial gifts. 

Thou who hast kept a continent for our dominion free, 

And builded walls of patriot hearts forfending either sea, 
Declare to us that wisdom which shall measure and divide, 
Between respect and dignity, and arrogance and pride. 



156 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Direct us, Lord, lest through our lapse thy righteous purpose 
fail, 

Let not the strength thou givest us, for evil power avail, 
But let our navy arbitrate and send our mighty arm 
To shield thy little peoples from tyranny and harm. 

Make us, oh God, thy heralds swift to bear thy peace and light 
To shores where men in terror writhe beneath oppression’s 
blight, 

But Father, never let our shield be stained by grasping lust; 
Make thou our grand eulogium, “A nation that is just.” 


ON THE RETURN OF THE 1st REGIMENT 

FROM MANILA 

Oh, Thou who set the continents to guard old Ocean’s isles 
And bade us keep our brothers through world-encircling 
miles, 

We come to Thee, Oh Father, with thankful, joyful song— 
The hearty praise of hopeful folk in measure full and strong. 

From fevered, tropic, sea-girt lands, back to Dakota’s plain, 
By Thy permission, Father, our brothers sail again; 

They bear unsullied banners, heroes of glorious days; 

Not vauntingly but humbly we give to Thee the praise. 

We fathom not thy purposes; Oh. why should some remain 
To sleep in jungle-smothered graves? God make Thy mean¬ 
ing plain; 

We know Thou art a tender friend and merciful Thy ways,— 
Thy will be done, Oh Father, accept our love and praise. 

And, Father, make us worthier of these courageous sons 
Whose valor carried liberty to Thy benighted ones, 

And when, our greeting over, war’s panoply they yield, 
Make them as great in peace, Oh God, as on the battlefield. 



POETS AND POETRY 


157 


During the winter of 1915-16, Robinson issued 
a brochure, entitled “Peaks,” containing poetic eulo¬ 
gies to ten of the leading citizens of South Dakota 
—those who tower above their fellowmen, like Har¬ 
ney towers above its fellow peaks in the Black Hills. 
In it are found several of this author’s best efforts. 
The general introduction to it reads: 

THE PEAKS 

We passed through the clustering hills that buttress the 
mountain wall, 

And one was the mate of his fellow, and we said, “How alike 
are all.” 

But when we had crossed the vale and turned from the 
opposite height, 

Above its mates one hoary peak loomed high in majestic 
might. 

We passed through the busy multitude of earnest, ambitious 
men, 

And one was the mate of his fellow and all were alike to our 
ken; 

But we crossed the valley of Time. From the heights beyond 
the creek 

We measured the men again, and one was a mountain peak. 


The first one of the ten “peaks” selected by 
Robinson is Bishop Hare, founder of All Saints 
school at Sioux Falls, and who was for thirty-five 
years a Protestant-Episcopal missionary in the Da¬ 
kota field. Of him the author says: 

THE KINDLING SPLITTER 

(“The Church is continually using a razor to split kindling,” exclaimed 
a bishop who disapproved calling William Hobart Hare from the general 
secretaryship of Foreign Missions to make him bishop to the Sioux Indi¬ 
ans.) 



158 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Darkness and cold held a nation in bond,— 

Cruel and killing the bite of the gyves, 

Hopeless and ruthless degenerate men 
Wasted their barren, unprofitable lives. 

Came then the splitter of kindling, aglow,— 

Facile his dexter hand; keen was his blade,— 

Forests of Paynim to tinder he hewed; 

Food for the match where Faith’s fagots were laid. 
Flashes the spark where the flint batters steel,— 
Prayer bellows the flame; quick, fervid the heat,— 

A people regenerate, hopeful and free, 

Lay bountiful gifts at Elohim’s feet. 

A BISHOP’S BLESSING 

The lodge of The Grass, squat on the drought-burned plain, 
Smote by the pitiless sun. The good gray bishop came, 

And as he gave his hand in greeting, the blessed rain, 

Fell unannounced, refreshing, sweet. “Ever the same,” 

The old chief gravely said; “this good man always brings 
A blessing to this lodge. Today he opens Heaven’s springs.” 


The Engineer’s contribution to the dialogue at 
“Hisega” shows Robinson at his best: 

THE MISSOURI’S CALL 

I love the South Dakota streams, 

The singing Rapid, Belle Cheyenne— 

I see where silvery Moreau gleams— 

The placid Jim; and ever when 
I watch the dash of Big Sioux falls, 

I’m filled with joy and cheer the race, 

But when the great Missouri calls 
I turn obedient to my place. 

There’s something in its voice that grips 
My very soul; the master flood 
That flings defiance from its lips, 



POETS AND POETRY 


159 


And stirs and fires my fighting blood. 

I bravely vow that I will yet, 

By some device entangle it, 

And on its throat a harness get 
To pull it down and strangle it. 

Break it, subdue it to my will, 

Guide it by bit and bridle, 

Serving mankind, nor let it still 
A vagrant be and idle. 

I feel its mighty pulses throb 
With power that's still to measure; 
And swear that it shall be my job 
Its energy to treasure. 

Its nervous force shall cheer the lives 
Of millions, hence, forever, 

To swell the power of man who strives, 
And fructify endeavor. 



Mrs. Emily E. Sloan 

Biographical —(nee Mullenger). Born, Oregon, Wisconsin, 
Oct. 22, 1878. Educated public schools, Springfield, S. D. 
Studied later in the saddle while herding horses on the 
range. Married Albert J. Sloan, Belle Fourche, S. D., Oct. 
15, 1895. Mother of four children—two girls and two boys. 
Admitted to the practice of law in Montana in 1918. 







MRS. EMILY E. SLOAN 

While the range country developed two cow-boy 
poets—Clark, the author of “Sun and Saddle 
Leather,” and Carr, the author of “Cow Boy Lyrics” 
(although Carr never was a cow-boy, but merely 
visited their camps), it also brought forth a cow¬ 
girl poet, Mrs. Emily E. Sloan (nee Mullenger). 

In addition to her poesy, she has written a 
number of prose sketches. These cover “Women of 
the Plains,” “Children of the Plains,” and a “Plea 
for Homes on the Range.” 

Her poetry covers a wide range of sentiment, 
being mostly descriptive in its character. A dainty 
bit of her verse is a poem entitled “A Letter,” which 
appeared in the February, 1911, issue of Munsey’s 
Magazine. 

Mrs. Sloan’s contribution to the literature of 
the state consists of a cloth-bound volume contain¬ 
ing twenty-one of her best poems. It is entitled 
“Ballads of the Plains.” In it every phase of the 
early life of the west-river homesteaders and cattle¬ 
men is pictured. The book is tastily illustrated by 
Thullen who has since made a record for himself as 
a decorator for the World’s Fair at San Francisco. 
Four of her shortest poems are given. 

WINTER ON THE PLAINS 

Winter has settled on the plain, 

The long divides are white again, 

The thick gray clouds hang near the world— 

Their snowy banners seem unfurled. 


162 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


The greaswood and the sagebrush gray, 
Were mantled well with frost today; 

Not much to rest the wanderer’s sight— 
The old Earth’s dressed in snowy white. 

No living thing around is seen, 

Save in a hollow or ravine, 

The herds are huddled, shivering there; 
They keenly feel the frosty air. 

Maybe a lonely coyote strolls 
Across the gullies and the knolls; 

Or rabbits run about and play, 

As if it were a warm fair day. 

But when the day is fairly done, 

The clouds roll quickly, sadly on— 

The gentle Moon sends forth her beams, 
Ah, then it is a world of dreams! 

We smile again with new delight, 
Winter has settled here tonight; 

Though cold and lone, we know ’tis best, 
That Mother Earth should have her rest. 


SUMMER ON THE PLAINS 

Summer comes slowly to the plain, 

The once brown hills are green again; 

The great sky holds its wealth of blue, 

And all the world is bright and new. 

The cattle graze in peaceful way, 

Their small calves ’neath the sagebrush lay, 
The lark nests ’neath the cactus thorn; 

He gaily whistles night and morn. 



POETS AND POETRY 


1G3 


The rattler dozes lazily— 

And prairie dogs around him play; 

The small child gathers gorgeous flowers, 
He loves the sunny, summer hours. 

As for me, most longingly, 

I look toward the eastern hills, 

I think of stately oaks and pines; 

Of ’nemonies and columbines. 

Though now I love the prairie wild, 

Yet, once was I a woodland child. 

And you, my love, must surely know, 

Why lovingly my thoughts will go— 

To woodlands sweet, and then return, 
Where summer winds the prairie burn, 
And why, though happy, yet I feel 
Sad memories around me steal. 

I put my good horse on the lope, 

Leave Mem’ry on the distant slope, 

And o’er the countless miles of green, 

The prairie’s beauties I have seen. 

And though no tree is in my sight— 
Badlands to the left and right, 
Contentment steals up quietly— 

The plains are dear to me and thee. 


NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE 

Night on the wide, wide prairie, 
The world so still, is asleep, 

I am alone in the darkness, 
Sadly, my vigil I keep. 



164 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Night on the wide, wide prairie, 

The moon peeps o’er the divide, 

Stars twinkle out in the gloaming; 
Shadows Earth’s miseries hide. 

Night on the wide, wide prairie, 

Then the curlews mournful cry, 

Lowly, the wind through the sagebrush 
Moaning, as he passes by. 

Night on the wide, wide prairie, 

Now the old bobcats all prowl, 

Far out in the distant badlands, 

So weirdly, the coyotes howl. 

Night on the wide, wide prairie, 

The echoes all die away— 

Luna her glory is shedding, 

Softly, the tall grasses sway. 

Night on the wide, wide prairie, 

God’s praise, so still and wide, 

Sweetly I rest in its silence, 

For the prairie is my pride. 


THE SPIRIT OF THE BAD LANDS 

The Spirit of the Badlands calls away to me, 

I hear her gently calling, across a grassy sea; 

She calls to me each morning, and many times each day, 
She calls and softly beckons, my heart to come away. 



POETS AND POETRY 


165 


I wandered out this morning, listening to her voice, 

There’s something in its weirdness that makes my heart 
rejoice. 

I wandered down the valleys and up each rugged slope, 
And so, though lone or weary, my soul is filled with hope. 

So odd are all the hills, so quaint are all the dells, 

That Nature weaves about me one of her mystic spells; 
Though Nature’s hands wrought harshly, I find some com¬ 
fort here, 

It gives me then some courage, for nature knew no fear. 

I w r ait and ever listening to her voice so strange and wild, 

I tremble then with wonder, 1 feel I am a child. 

It is here the Badland Spirit wanders along her ways— 

She soothes my troubled spirit; she comforts all my days. 



May Phillips-Tatro 

Biographical —Born, Grand Isle county, Mich., 1865. 
Parents died when she was 14. Adopted by Mrs. James 
Hewitt, Neilsville, Wis. Married G. W. Tatro, 1886. Came 
to Dakota same year. Member Authors’ Club of Minnea¬ 
polis. Contributor to magazines. Died, Bowdle, S. D., April 
16, 1902. 











MAY PHILLIPS-TATRO 
In a grass-covered grave in the village of 
Bowdle, this state, marked only by a small undated 
tombstone, bearing the inscription, 

“To Our Gifted 
MAY PHILLIPS-TATRO” 

lies a woman whose great heart once beat with an 
exuberance of joy over the richness of Dakota 
prairie life—the songs of the birds, the melodies of 
spring, the crackling of the wheat, and the “smell 
of new-mown hay.” As will readily be seen by com¬ 
parison, Mrs. Tatro takes high rank among our lady 
singers. 

With her, as with Lawton, the state suffered a 
distinct literary loss through her early demise. She 
was one of the most inspirational writers, of either 
sex, that the state has thus far developed. Many of 
her best poems are not premeditated, labored efforts, 
but are rather the result of a sudden impulse — a 
genuine melodic inspiration springing from the hu¬ 
man heart. Such was the manner in which she 
wrote “In Hayin’ Time.” Mr. Ed. S. Whittaker, a 
reader trained at Dakota Wesleyan University, ac¬ 
companied by a ladies’ quartet from that institution, 
was giving a recital at Bowdle, the home of Mrs. 
Tatro. In his reportoire he recited James Whitcomb 
Riley’s “Knee Deep In June.” Mrs. Tatro was in 




168 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


the audience. She caught the inspiration of the oc¬ 
casion, and, upon going home, seized her pen and 
dashed off a companion piece to it—“In Hayin’ 
Time” before she went to bed. It was a splendid 
achievement, and its delightful rhythm will appeal 
to lovers of verse for years to come. She dedicated 
the poem to Mr. Whittaker. The people of Bowdle 
were so pleased with his readings that they invited 
him back for a second entertainment. Upon this 
occasion he read Mrs. Tatro’s inspirational poem 
which follows: 


IN HAYIN’ TIME 

(Dedicated to Mr. Ed. S. Whittaker.) 

Tell you what I like the best of anything on earth, 

An’ it’s about the last of June it has its natural birth; 

It comes a kind o’ lazy like an’ spreads itself around 
An’ what ain’t floatin’ in the air just settles on the ground. 
The smell it has, I’m tellin’ you, ain’t no imported scent, 
But just a breath from heaven you think God must have lent. 
These perfume chaps have somthin’ ther’ a callin’ “New- 
mown hay,” 

But, landy sakes, my hayin’ smell discounts it any day. 

The condiments that make it up in no way can be beat. 

An’ if you’ve never heard it, I’ll give the receipt. 

Take twelve long hours brimmin’ full and spillin’ every¬ 
where 

Of the yellerest kind of sunshine an’ the softest wafts of air; 
Now mix these up with smells that come a wafted to and fro 
From pastur’ lots an’ woods an’ fields an’ where pond lilies 
grow, 

An’ posies from the garden, an’ you’ll need an extra mess 
Of pine, wild rose, an’ such as these proportioned more or 
less, 


POETS AND POETRY 


169 


Then add your clover red an’ white an’ this receipt of mine 
Will furnish you what I shall call the smell in hayin’ time. 

I’d ruther loaf around the field an’ hear the mower hum 
Than see the biggest show on earth, that’s what I would, by 
gum. 

I like to lop among the hay an’ sort a doze an’ dream. 

Then wake again, then drowse some more till life begins to 
seem 

Like them queer poets tell about, an’ then I lay and think 
An’ watch the shadders patchin’ round an’ dodgin’ quick-a- 
wink; 

An’ wondrin’ why I wasn’t made so’s I could born a rhyme, 

I wouldn’t write but one a year, jest one—in hayin’ time. 

I’d tell about the sky-lark with his gladsome soarin’ lay, 
The crickets song, an’ dronin’ bees, an’ lumberin’ loads o’ hay; 
I’d speak about the spring time when early mornin’ light 
Trimmed every piled-up haycock with dew-drops blinkin’ 
bright, 

Like as though some baby stars forgot to go away 
Or night was tired of holdin’ ’em, an’ dropped ’em into 

day. 

But I can’t do it, farthermore, I ain’t agoin’ to try— 

There ain’t no poems in some folks, no more ’n a pig can 

fly- 

4 

But there’s one chap that’s got the knack o’ tellin’ what he 
sees, 

An’ he can understand the whisperin’ of the trees 
An’ what the brook’s a sayin’, an’ about the “Old Swimmin* 
Hole,” 

The garter snakes across your path an’ the little medder 
mole, 

The rustling corn, the old rail fence, the mournin’ dove’s soft 
call, 

The freshness of the, spring time an’ the colorin’ of the fall. 



170 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


The glimmerin’ sheen of summer an’ old Winter’s blusterin’ 
snow; 

In fact, there’s nothin’ nature claims but what he’s sure to 
know. 

An’ as you’re readin’ what he writes you foller him along, 
An’, durn me, if you don’t forget it’s just a poet’s song, 

For you can see them very things, an’ almost yell for joy, 
For all the years they slip away an’ you’re a country boy, 
A craunchin’ young green apples, or a racin’ through the 
brush, 

Or over logs a stumblin’ into blue-flag bogs ker slush, 

Or follerin’ ’long the cow-path with your bare feet shufflin’ 
slow 

So’s to hear the bull frogs’ orchestra an’ watch the dust 
aglow 

With lightnin’ bugs. But there, I jing. I’ve hit upon a plan. 
I’ll ast Jim Whitcomb Riley, for you know he’s jest the man 
I’m talkin’ of an’ see if he won’t write some sort o’ rhyme 
With nothin’ in it, not a thing, but hayin’ time. 

Mrs. Tatro belonged to the “Author’s Club” of 
Minneapolis. She was one of its most gifted mem¬ 
bers. Her poems were always in demand by the 
Minneapolis Tribune which published a great many 
of them. Among these miscellaneous poems is a 
dainty one called “Ships At Seatwo poems upon 
the seasons — one entitled “Spring Upon The 
Prairie,” the other, “Indian Summer;” and three 
poems on the months—“April,” “June,” and “Oc¬ 
tober.” One of these poems is here given: 

JUNE 

O, peerless June! 0, love’s own time— 

From out thy heart pours nature’s rhyme. 

Thy lilting songs through waves of light 
Beat upward with the skylark’s flight; 



POETS AND POETRY 


171 


Thy fragrant breath, with wooing sigh, 
Breathes forth where waxen lilies lie, 

And as thy languorous spell imparts 
Its warmth to their half-dreaming hearts— 
They thrill with life! th’ buds unfold 
To show their calyxes of gold. 

O, peerless June! O, love’s own time! 

From out thy heart pours nature’s rhyme. 

O, peerless June! 0, witching time! 

Thy harmonies are all achime. 

Thy tilts of color-—brilliant—gay— 

Thy flower wraiths that droop and sway; 
Thy pale moon-tints laced back by stars 
That swing from twilight’s crimson bars. 
Thy butterflies make dots between 
The brooklet and the meadow-green; 

Thy bumble-bees with threatening drone 
Protect thee on thy flower throne. 

Rose-kissed—rose-crowned! fair month atune 
With nature’s grace—O peerless June. 


Two of Mrs. Tatro’s rhymes entitled, “The 
Woodland Path,” and “Not Yet, Not Yet,” are re¬ 
produced, so as to give the reader a broader idea of 
her literary conception: 

THE WOODLAND PATH 

Through the clover, red and sweet, 

Straggling through a field of wheat, 

Down across the pasture lot 
Where the dandelions dot 
With their golden gleaming tint; 

Through the brooklet’s lush spearmint, 

And the bushes by the ditch 
Where we cut our hazel switch, 






172 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Winding through the orchard trees 
Where the droning bumblebees 
Swagger by on lazy wings; 

Under dropping elm, where swings 
Cunningly the hang-bird’s nest, 

Wherein, cradled ’neath her breast, 

Wee ones rock with every sigh 
Of the breeze that passes by. 

Now along the brookside’s brink; 

Where the cattle splash and drink; 

Through rank bunches of blue flag 
Where the children loiter, lag, 

When from school they homeward turn, 
Walking deep through mint and fern; 
Then a sigzag way it takes, 

On through mandrake, slough and brakes, 
Over fallen logs it leads, 

Bramble bush and bending reeds, 

Into deeper, darker shade, 

Mossy dell and flower-strewn glade; 

Climbs a fence with broken rail, 

Through the corn field where the quail 
Pipes his cry of, ‘‘Wet, more wet!” 

On it goes, until we let 
Down the barnyard bars, and go 
Up the lane—how well we know 
What dear spot the ending hath 
Of this old-time, woodland path. 


NOT YET, NOT YET 
0 weary watcher, not yet, not yet! 

You must still work on with dim eyes wet, 

And scan the waves with their white-capped foam, 
For a sign of a sail that is nearing home. 






POETS AND POETRY 


173 


It will not reach you, dear heart, today, 

For your treasure went sailing away, away 
Far over the world’s great surging main 
And this must content you, this sad refrain— 

Not yet, not yet! 

Not yet! and the years creep slowly by 
And we struggle for patience and hush the cry 
That comes from the soul as we look in vain 
For the swift release from the toil and pain 
That forms a part of our daily life, 

A part that is mingled with grief and strife; 

But no! We must wait for some far-off time, 

When our treasures will come, ah, yours and mine! 
Not yet, not yet! 

Not yet, not yet! O tired heart, 

You have drifted so far from your ships apart; 

At eventide, when the sun sinks low, 

And the twilight shadows toss to and fro, 

You may watch till the morning’s rosy light 
Sweeps over the world, but your eager sight 
Will never a glimpse of a white sail see— 

O’ when will my treasures come back to me? 

Not yet, not yet! 

Four of her best poems are all centered about 
one theme—Thanksgiving. She called them “Com¬ 
panion Poems,” and dedicated them “To The Lovers 
of Home And The Fireside.” They really constitute 
one poem in four parts, making too lengthy a pro¬ 
duction for republication. 



Henry Augustus Van Dalsem 

Biographical —Born, New York City, November 22, 1842. 
Father was a prominent physician. Educated, New York 
City schools. In early manhood went to Wisconsin. Became 
a Congregational minister. Abandoned this profession. Came 
to Dakota in 1883. Settled in Huron. Edited “The Rural- 
ist,” the People’s Party organ—for two years. In 1894, mar¬ 
ried Mrs. Dr. Friede Feige, of Huron. Justice of the Peace 
for many years. Prominent in Masonic circles. Died De¬ 
cember 1, 1913. 








JUDGE H. A. VAN DALSEM 


We are now to consider the most prolific writer 
of both prose and poetry whom the state has as yet 
developed—Judge Henry A. Van Dalsem, of Huron, 
For range of vocabulary, ease of expression, en¬ 
nobling sentiments, varied and complex form, and, 
above all, a superabundance of literary productions 
—both prose and poetry—he is plainly in a class 
all by himself; in fact, he is simply a marvel, a 
natural born, literary genius. 

His diction is of an exceptionally high order; 
his English, as graceful and as plastic as a sylvan 
stream; even his prose is possessed of a charming 
melody. 

On his desk, at the time of his death, he left 
two huge, hand-written, bound volumes of delightful 
poems, covering a range of subjects that seem al¬ 
most incredible as having come from the pen of one 
man. In addition to these, his desk was fairly con¬ 
gested with hit-or-miss poems of various lengths— 
each one being a literary jewel. The judge also 
wrote a complete volume of thirty-four gospel songs 
for El Riad Temple. These are high grade, clever 
productions, never excelled in Masonry. 

His ablest production is the one entitled “My 
Soul,” a poem in six cantos. It is dedicated to his 
widow, Dr. Friede Van Dalsem, and is a scholarly 
treatise on the human soul. In addition to its 
prologue and epilogue, the poem consists of 174 


17G 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


stanzas of four lines each. In rhythm and meter, 
it is fashioned after the “Rubiyat.” The Epilogue 
only is herein given. 

(THE EPILOGUE.) 

Still shall the thirsty drink from truth’s pure tide; 

To whom each offered cup, tho’ sanctified, 

Too much its taste imparts and spoils the draft 
In formless freedom to the free supplied. 

Nor shall the wise men judge him and condemn 
Who finds another path to Bethlehem; 

To his own master shall he stand or fall, 

And share the riches of His grace with them. 

Only a few of his shorter poems are here re¬ 
produced to show his varied styles and trend of 
thought. 

THE SOUL OF THE SONG 

They tell of the song that the angels sang 
Over Bethlehem, storied of old; 

Whose wonderful measure of gladness rang 
With a melody never yet told. 

They speak of the musical stars of morn, 

And the jubilant harps of the blest; 

Of trumpets whose silvery notes are born 
Of the joy in the Seraphim’s breast. 

How Heaven must ring when those mighty choirs 
To the throne of the Holiest throng! 

And hearts full of love and love’s desires 
Are afloat on that ocean of song! 

And yet if I stood in that singing sphere 
With its benison sweeping the skies, 

My lip would be mute till my love drew near 
With the light of my soul in her eyes. 



POETS AND POETRY 


177 


DO THEY FORGET? 

When from the bier, beyond the dawn, 

The friends we love on earth are gone, 

Do they forget us evermore 
As dreams that fade when night its o’er? 
At Heaven’s gate 
I’d watch and wait 
Oh! Sweetheart so tender and true; 

With love aflame 
Until you came, 

Still watching and waiting for you! 

Would you, if you were called away, 

Go singing through the gates of day, 
Unmindful of the holy vow 
That binds us to each other now? 

At Heaven’s gate 
I’d watch and wait 
Oh! sweetheart so tender and true; 

With love aflame 
Until you came, 

Still watching and waiting for you! 

It seems to me, if I could climb 
Beyond the cloudy vale of time, 

I’d think of you and gladly wait, 

Although I stood at Heaven’s gate! 

At Heaven’s gate 
I’d watch and wait 
Oh! sweetheart so tender and true; 

With love aflame 
Until you came, 

Still watching and waiting for you! 


178 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


When death’s icy chill began to steal over him 
and he knew that the end was near, he calmly sat 
up in bed and deliberately penned to his faithful wife 
his “At Last.” 

AT LAST 

Bride of my sunset hours, in whose fond eyes 
Brightened the love that lit my somber skies; 

No lyric song, tho’ fluent as the sea, 

Can ever tell what thou hast been to me. 

Let warbling birds their sweetest carols sing; 

Let Nature’s harp sound every string; 

Let choral voices all their lore unfold; 

The story of thy worth still runs untold. 

Yet somewhat of its Love’s unmeasured song 
My soul would utter, lest thy fancy wrong 
The golden silence, in whose keeping dwells 
The deeper feeling which no symbol tells. 

Thou art more dear today than in the hour 
When first I felt thy spirit’s power, 

And faith, forthstanding in her temple door, 
Summoned the love I thought could live no more. 

It was a wondrous hour when thy dear eyes, 

Deep looking into mine, bade me arise; 

And seeing all my clouds were silver lined, 

I found the joy for which my spirit pined. 

Then as the blind, slow groping in the gloom 
Touched by the healer’s hand their sight assume, 
Forsake th’ inquiring staff and walk firm shod, 

My falt’ring feet the path of pleasure trod. 

God lead thee, sweetheart, and through golden days 
Bid his attending angels guard thy ways; 

And for the comfort thou hast given me 
May He bestow a thousandfold on thee. 


POETS AND POETRY 


179 


But we must not, in justice to Judge Van 
Dalsem, dismiss his works without reviewing his 
prose writings. His editorials in the old “Ruralist” 
are charmingly written, but inasmuch as they deal 
wholly with passing themes, they will not be em¬ 
bodied herein. 

About three and one-half years before he died, 
at the time his heart first began to bother him and 
when it was thought that death might suddenly en¬ 
sue, he wrote the following instructions with regard 
to his burial; sealed them up and gave copies of 
them to three different people—including his wife— 
with written requests on the envelopes that no one 
should open them until after he had died: 

MY BURIAL 

The prevailing system of burial being false in import, 
foohsh in form, and extravagant in display, I herein and 
hereby protest against its observance in my case and for 
me, and record my desire as follows: 

First—Let not my body be embalmed nor in any man¬ 
ner prepared for exhibition. Nature having spoken, let me 
return to the dust modestly, unmutilated, and unmixed with 
so-called preservatives. 

Second—Let my burial be private, my remains being 
borne from my home to the grave, followed only by those 
who know and love me enough not to forget me when I am 
gone from view. 

Third—Let no costly bouquets and mounds of murdered 
flowers be sacrificed to do me hollow honor. In life I have 
loved the flowers, and in death I would not ravage ncr de¬ 
stroy them. Give your flower money to the poor and needy. 


180 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Fourth—Let no so-called “sermon” be preached over me. 
No perfunctory encomiums nor condolences fit either them 
or me who are in actual interest. No pulpiteer knows them 
or me, nor aught of the world and condition to which I go, 
wherefore his conventional ministerial flatteries must be as 
idle in death as they have always been distasteful to me in 
life. 


Fifth—Let no one wear “mourning” for me. Death is 
not a calamity, but as natural as life, and equally a part of 
the Divine plan. Pity the living, not the dead, who, for all 
we know, are fuller of life than ever. As for me, since God 
calls, I go, believeing that all is well; therefore, do not weep 
and mourn, but trust me to Him whom I trust with all that 
is mine either here or hereafter. Let these things be as 
I have said, and so farewell, and God be with you. 

H. A. Van Dalsem. 

The Judge’s widow, Dr. Friede Van Dalsem, of Huron, 
has had a large volume of his poems published, under the 
title “Poems of Soul and Home.” 







Rollin J. Wells 


Biographical —Born, Moline, Illinois, June 24, 1848. Edu¬ 
cated, public schools of Moline; also spent two years, literary 
department, University of Michigan. Taught school, Illinois. 
Married Susan L. Little. 1870. Father of five children. 
Read law in offices of Judge George E. Waite, Geneseo, Ill. 
Admitted, Illinois bar, 1878. Came to Dakota. Settled at 
Sioux Falls. Entered promptly upon the practice of law. 
In 1881, formed partnership with William A. Wilkes. Ad¬ 
mitted to practice in the U. S. supreme court, 1887. Dis¬ 
solved partnership with Wilkes, 1890, and formed a new 
association with George T. Blackman. 









ROLLIN J. WELLS 


“Pleasure And Pain” is the title of a volume of 
sixty-two poems, from the pen of Rollin J. Wells, of 
Sioux Falls, placed upon the market for the holiday 
trade in 1914. Taken all in all it is one of the most 
substantial volumes of poems from the pen of a 
single author that has appeared thus far in the state. 

Wells’ poems appeal to old and young alike, be¬ 
cause of their placticity, their perfect rhythm, their 
music, the ideal selection of words in them, their 
charming originality, and the still greater fact that 
in each of them is a deep sympathy which touches 
the heart strings of all humanity. 

The first poem in “Pleasure and Pain” is given 
the same title as the book itself. It follows in full: 

PLEASURE AND PAIN 
Yes, Pleasure and Pain are a tandem team, 

Abroad in all kinds of weather, 

And whether you know it or not, my lad, 

They are always yoked together. 

The first has a coat of silken sheen, 

With mane like the moonbeams streaming, 

And a tail like the fleecy clouds at night 
When the winds and waves are dreaming. 

And he moves like a barque o’er the sapphire seas, 
As his feet the earth are spurning, 

And his breath is blown through his nostrils wide, 
And his eyes like stars are burning. 


184 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Ah, gaily he rides who bestrides this steed, 

And flies o’er the earth with laughter, 

But whether you know it or not, my lad, 

There’s a dark stead coming after. 

For, hard behind with a tireless pace 
Comes Pain like a wivern, faster, 

And whether you know it or not, my lad. 

You must mount on him thereafter. 

His nostrils are bursting with smoke and flame 
From the fires that within are burning, 

And whether you rue it or not, my lad, 

There is no hope of returning. 

Each hair on his sides is a bristling spear 
That is poisoned with lost desires, 

That rankles and burns in your quivering flesh 
That is seared by the fiendish fires. 

And whether you know it or not, my lad, 

You may never dismount from Pain 
Till for every mile you rode the first 
You have ridden the latter twain. 

One of the best poems in the book is entitled 
“Growing Old.” The first one only of its five eight¬ 
line stanzas is reproduced here: 

A little more tired at the close of day, 

A little less anxious to have our way; 

A little less ready to scold and blame, 

A little more care for a brother’s name; 

And so we are nearing the journey’s end, 

Where Time and Eternity meet and blend. 



POETS AND POETRY 


185 


Wells’ poems are so perfectly wrought that 
they adapt themselves admirably to music. This is 
especially true of “Hagar’s Lament” and of “My 
Pilot.” The latter poem has been set to good music 
and is for sale at all music stores. It has also been 
embodied in a standard hymnal. 

MY PILOT 

Why should I wait for evening star,— 

Why should I wait to cross the bar, 

And Death’s dissolving hand to trace 
The outlines of my Pilot’s face? 

Must my frail barque be driven and tossed 
By winds and waves—be wrecked and lost 
Upon life’s strange and storm-swept sea 
Because my Pilot’s far from me? 

No, not alone my way I trace, 

Each wave gives back my Pilot’s face; 

To every sin and fear and ill, 

To every storm he says, “Be still!” 

I need no longer vex my soul 
With longings for that distant goal: 

My Pilot sitteth at the prow, 

And Heaven’s within, and here, and now. 


A clever sketch of his is one entitled “Grand¬ 
pa.” It is a fitting companion piece to Burleigh’s 
“Grandma”. Speaking of the children 
“As lively and cute as fleas,” 

Grandpa is made to exclaim: 

The racket they raise is beyond belief. 

As they charge around my chair, 

Pretending that I am an Indian chief 
Or perhaps a polar bear. 



186 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


HAGAR 

In the broad range of literary endeavor that has 
characterized the writing of our state, there seems 
to have been room for all; and the manner in which 
each of the leaders seems intuitively to have selected 
and developed a field of his or her own, is rather 
remarkable. It remained, however, for Rollin J. 
Wells to make an excursion into the field of drama, 
and therein to make for himself in his “Hager” a 
reputation as a poetic dramatist that will, in all 
probability, give to him the domination of this field 
of literary thought in the state for some time to 
come. 

Hagar is a dramatic poem in three acts, illus¬ 
trated throughout in two colors by the artist Hud¬ 
son. It is founded upon the biblical narrative of 
Sarah’s handmaid. Every sentence in it is measured 
with the mind of a master builder; every word is set 
in each sentence like a glistening diamond in a stud¬ 
ded gem: it is simply a perfect piece of pure and 
undefiled English. To lovers of classic literature, 
to admirers of the faultless use of the Mother 
Tongue, nothing could be more satisfying than Ha¬ 
ger. It is one of the most polished productions, 
from a literary standpoint, in South Dakota litera¬ 
ture. 


In it Wells very tastefully introduces for Hager 
a gallant young lover, named Athuriel. Her father, 
Abner, is made responsible for her downfall. He 


POETS AND POETRY 


187 


sells her virtue to Abraham for half of his flocks 
and gold. Hager exclaimes: 

“Pm not 

Unmindful, nor ungrateful, but my blood 
Cannot be coined in gold. In all things else 
I will obey, but not in this. My soul 
Abhors the loathsome thought.” 

ABNER: 

“ ’Tis my command. Obey!” 

She sobs herself to sleep. Then Athuriel, as 
the dawn approaches, comes near her and solilo¬ 
quizes : 

“Asleep amid the flowers where angels flit 

&nd waft sweet dreams, as odors, from their wings. 

The benediction of the skies must rest 

Upon this scene, and earth smile back to heaven. 

0, let me be a portion of thy dream! 

(He draws nearer.) 

Awake, my love! The Shepherd of the night 
T eads to the fold the waning stars, and day, 

With rising splendor, floods the hills. 

Come while the shadow rests upon the flower, 

Pensive with dewy tears.” 

Hager, conscience stricken and jaded, is made 
to reply: 

“My heart awoke 

Before the young winds breathed into my ear 
Your prayer; but, with a fainting hope, for life 
Has lost its sweetness.” 

ATHURIEL: 

“Speak not so my love. 
What evil wind now wakes, robbing my rose 
Of its sweet-scented dew?” 


188 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


HAGAR: 

“Plucked by rude hands, 

Its fragrance ravished by a ruder breath.” 

After an extended, dramatic conversation with 
her, Athuriel shouts: 

“The law! 

’Tis lust that lays its leprous hands on you.” 

Hager looks up at him with intense longing and 
confession in her eyes and says: 

“My father’s will. From it I cannot fly. 

Come, fly with me to death!” 

Presently, Abner—Hagar’s father—enters upon 
the scene and commands, 

“Seducer, fly!” 

His daughter’s impassioned young lover faces 
Abner with a defiant air and upbraids him as 
follows: 

“Betrayer of a father’s trust! seeking 
To sell her soul to loathsome lust for gold! 

How dare you look her in the face and live?” 

In Act II, Sarah—Abraham’s legitimate wife 
—and Hager are having a heated debate over her 
shame, when Abraham, himself, comes into her tent 
and reasons with them: 

“Why wrangle so? At home all should be peace. 

The world is hard; strife rules the mart, 

But when we cross the threshold of our homes 
We lay this by and long for rest.” 

Sarah engages him in conversation. To her he 
replies: 

“Desist, desist! 

The wilderness were better than this strife.” 



POETS AND POETRY 


189 


Finally, he yields to Sarah’s entreaties and says 
with regard to Hagar: 

“I'll send the scape-goat hence.” 

Whereupon they withdraw and leave Hager 
bending over her illegitimate child. She sobs: 

“A slave! Thrust from my arms, despised, despoiled! 

Was my heart ravished of its love for this? 

Look not trustingly into my eyes, 

My Ishmael, or you will read my sins. 

A slave! My God, can this be my reward? 

Have I not followed faith, betrayed my heart? 

Debased my life and lost my soul? Take him, 

My little lamb, into Thy tender arms! 

Let not my sins fall on his head. Lead him, 

If need be, in the wilderness, where its 
Inhospitable wastes allow no slaves.” 

Sarah returns, accompanied by the priest. Af¬ 
ter a running debate among them, Abraham comes 
up with his guards and pointing to Hagar and her 
helpless child, exclaims, 

“Away!” 

Hagar looks back imploringly, as she is driven 
out, and says: 

“Pity must linger in some heart for me;” 

whereon, one of the soldiers, pitying the fate of 

the child, says: 

“Death in the desert 

Waits for him. Give him to me.” 

Hagar becomes frantic and in her mother agony 
declares: 

“My child! my child! Give him 
Away? No, let his icy fingers clasp 
My neck in death!” 


190 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Abraham commands: 

“Alarm the drums; 

Drive forth the evil one!” 

The soldiers, at the points of their spears, then 
drive her away. 

Scene III of this same Act, portrays Hager 
alone in the wilderness, during that awful night so 
dramatically pictured in the Bible. She lays her 
parching child on some dead leaves and then walks 
away where she cannot see the anguish on his face 
while he dies of thirst. 

Here Wells very artistically brings up Athuriel 
who has been searching for his love, and causes him 
to listen to Hagar’s words: 

“Hush darling-, for the day is dead and night 
Creeps from its lonely lair. Sleep in my arms, 

For God may wake us to another day. 

A drink? Would that my tears might quench your thirst! 
But dream of fountains gushing from the hills, 

Of bright dews flashing from the angels’ wings, 

Which hover near and guard our sleep. Asleep! 

Oh! God, with bitter anguish would I cry, 

But hungry beasts awake at fall of night, 

With fierce complainings as they sniff the wind, 
Encroaching as the tides some sea-girt isle. 

Into Thy hands I now commit my child! 

His innocense must plead with Thee. Let not 
My sins cut off his days! He dies of thirst! 

Look, Lord, into his little face so sweet, 

So innocent, yet traced with pain in sleep! 

Take him into Thine everlasting arms! 

My blood shall quench the lions’ thirst—hush—” 

Then Hagar chants softly: 


POETS AND POETRY 


191 


“Breathe, softly, my baby, and do not cry, 
Though darkness and danger are drawing night; 
Alone in the forest where none can hear, 

But God and the angels, my baby dear. 

The cool winds are wet with silver dew, 

That angels will gather the whole night through, 
And bring in the lily when morn is near, 

For God is still good to us, baby dear. 

Start not at the sound of each stealthy tread, 
The stars are still watching just overhead; 

This earth may be cruel, but heaven is near, 

And God will be good to us, baby dear. 

Then wake not, my darling, from rest to pain, 
But pillow your head on my bosom again. 
’Twas only the bittern’s boom over the mere, 
And God will protect us, my baby dear. 

The wild beasts are lurking around our way, 

Yet man is more cruel, my dear, than they, 
Hush! hush! ’Tis the panther’s cry, Oh, so near! 
But God is more close to us, baby dear.” 


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192 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


While this scene is being enacted, Athuriel, 
whose approach had been undetected by Hagar, slips 
away quietly and gets a cruse of water which he 
brings back, steals up softly and sets it near Hagar. 
Presently the moon comes up. The agonizing mother 
sees the pitcher of water. She rushes to it; seizes 
the vessel and gives the feverish baby a drink. The 
little fellow refuses to release the pitcher and keeps 
on drinking. Hagar says to him: 

“Wait, darling, for awhile, then drink again; 

Rest on this bed of leaves and dream of Heaven, 

For God has sent his angel unto us, 

Bringing this cruse of water and has shut 
The mouths of hungry lions while we sleep. 

(Ishmael falls to sleep again.) 

This is an awful place where God descends, 

And walks in darkness through these mighty woods. 

Each flower may peer into His face and fill 
Its cup. Why should I fear? Has He not led 
Me safely through the night? For now the dawn 
Lifts the dim curtains of these leafy aisles, 

And cowering beasts slink to their gloomy caves.” 

After this tragic night in the wilderness, Ath¬ 
uriel takes Hager; sets up a kingdom of his own; 
crowns her as queen. Abraham seeks to overthrow 
him. A bloody battle ensues. Athuriel’s forces win 
a decisive victory. Isaac—Abraham and Sarah’s 
legitimate son—is captured by Authriel’s army and 
held as a hostage of war. Finally, Abraham, old 
and broken in health, with his eyes bedimmed, makes 
his way to Athuriel’s headquarters, and after gain¬ 
ing admission, pleads as follows: 

“I rest upon your word; give me my son.” 

After a penitential rehearsal before Athurieh 
Abraham again implores: 


POETS AND POETRY 


193 


‘A brave man never wrongs the innocent. 

With empty hands and yearning heart I come. 

If ransom you require, all that I have 
Is thine. Give me, I pray, my living son!” 

Athuriel commands him to deal with the queen. 
Abraham turns to her, but his eyes are too dimmed 
with age to detect her identification. He pleads: 

“Oh, Queen! 

I pray the sorrows of a poor old man 
May touch the tendrils of a mother’s heart, 

That twine so lovingly around your son, 

And wring from their chaste lips, sweet sympathy 
That makes the whole race kin. Let me draw near, 

For my dim eyes would read in your face, 

Mercy and hope. (He steps forward and peers in her 

face, then turns and exclaims) : ‘Tis Hagar! I am lost!" 
As Isaac steps forward from behind the flap 
of the tent, Hagar says to Abraham: 

“Behold your son!” 

Abraham embraces him, and then turning to 
Hagar, in penitence and remorse, he asks: 

“Hagar, can you forgive 
A broken and a contrite man?” 

Pity seizes Hagar, and as her heart wells up 
with sympathy, she replies: 

“Yes; go! 

Not as a wanderer unto the waste, 

Naked and scourged by evil tongues of hate, 

But to your home in peace.” 

Although the author, as will be seen by com¬ 
parison, departed somewhat from the biblical nar¬ 
rative, yet nowhere did he weaken it; rather, at each 
angle, he strengthened it. It is a masterpiece, has 
been staged, and takes rank with some of the bes' 
selections of our national literature. 



Gustav G. Wenzlaff 

. Biographical —Born, Germany, 1865. Acquired early edu¬ 
cation of his father who was a successful German teacher. 
Came to America when a boy. Settled in South Dakota. 
Was graduated from the Yankton high school in 1884; from 
Yankton College in 1888. Studied in Chicago 1888-89. In¬ 
structor in Yankton College 1889-92. Student, Berlin Uni¬ 
versity and University of Leipsiz, Germany, 1892. Profes¬ 
sor of Philosophy and German, Yankton College, 1893-97. 
Student University of Chicago, 1897-98. Recuperating in 
California 1899-1900. Superintendent of Yankton county 
schools, 1905- 1908. President Springfield Normal 1908-1918. 
Granted his LL.D degree by Yankton College, 1911. Married 
Susie Caroline Rice, of Chicago, Aug. 1, 1894. Father of 
three children—one girl and two boys. 





GUSTAV G. WENZLAFF 

Here again is another writer who cannot be 
classified either as a prose writer or as a poet, for 
he excels as both. Dr. Wenzlaff’s prose composi¬ 
tions are scholarly models; and yet, peculiarly 
enough, he seems equally strong on his poetic side. 
He speaks and writes two languages and reads 
several more. 

Wenzlaff’s prose productions cover two books 
and a number of varied sketches. His best prose 
work is his “Mental Man,” a psychology that is now 
used in many of the best colleges and normal schools 
of the country. It is characterized by two things: 
first, its short crisp sentences which make it easy 
reading; second, its wealth of original physical il¬ 
lustration. His second book is a small volume of 
“Sketches and Legends of the West.” These stories 
cover a wide range of thought and style and they 
are tersely phrased. 

His prose style is charmingly revealed in the 
following sketch given in full: 

OLD BON HOMME 

It was a fall day. No frost had yet blighted the vege¬ 
tation, but already the yellow corn showed through the wilt¬ 
ing husks. A longing to get away from the humdrum of 
routine work and to dream a day-dream took us out toward 
old Bon Homme on the Missouri. 

Eight miles to the east of the dingy stone walls of the 
Springfield Normal we look down upon a fair plain dotted 
with farm buildings in the midst of clustering trees. To 
the east a white church spire catches our eye, and farther to 


196 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


the south a group of buildings rather too large to be a 
collection of farm buildings. A little cemetery, well kept 
after a fashion, enclosed by a weather-beaten fence, over¬ 
looks the Bon Homme valley and the wide stretches of the 
wild Missouri. Granite blocks and marble shafts rise above 
the stubble of the prairie grass. Yes, we read some of the 
inscribed names and remember those who years ago re¬ 
sponded to them. 

A well traveled road leads to where years ago stood the 
fair little town of Bon Homme. At one place a few build¬ 
ings are on either side of the road, once a street of the town, 
and a little farther on the little white schoolhouse, once 
the village school, the successor of the first schoolhouse in 
Dakota Territory. I have seen some of the pupils that were 
gathered in that first schoolhouse in Dakota—not as ruddy¬ 
faced youngsters, but as serious men and women past middle 
life. 

I tried to point out to my companion the site of the old 
county courthouse, that had been here, and other familiar 
landmarks. 

By the road—or should I say, on one side of the street— 
a man was unloading some hay in the wind. I pulled in the 
reins. 

I had met the man before, and he reminded me of it. I 
asked him where the courthouse had stood, and the jail, 
which years ago had impressed my youthful mind. 

“You’d better ask the old man over there,” was his ad¬ 
vice. “He can tell you better.” 

Just then the old man came out of the house and stood 
by the little gate, that once opened upon a busy street. 

We drove up. After mutual salutations I told the man 
that I used to be acquainted with the location of things 
here and with some people, too. At present, however, I 
could not locate anything. Where did the courthouse stand? 

“Over there.” He pointed out the spot. 

“And the jail?” 

“It was this side of it.” 


POETS AND POETRY 


197 


“The hotel burned down, didn’t it?” 

“Yes, some years ago.” 

I inquired after several other old landmarks that had 
been, and I received the same brief replies. Now I began 
to look more closely at the old house before which we were 
halting. 

I observed the attempts that apparently had been made 
at flower-gardening on a small scale in the front yard. I 
now also noticed more definitely that the old man was really 
not young any more. 

“My name is W-,” continued I, “and this is my 

friend, Mr. G-.” 

“My name is Clark,” he replied. 

“I suppose that you have lived here a long time?” I 
queried, taking in some more details. 

“Pm the oldest settler here,” he answered. 

“Are any others here that came to Bon Homme about 
the time you did?-” 

“I am the last one.” 

I wished that I knew what stream of reminiscences 
coursed through his mind, and what emotions stirred his 
breast. He seemed entirely unmoved. I knew, however, 
that to be the oldest settler in old Bon Homme meant much, 
for was not young Bon Homme once hopeful, ambitious, and 
aspiring for great things—it is history that she came near 
becoming the capital of Dakota Territory! I wished that the 
oldest settler of old Bon Homme might “unbutton” a little 
and talk—talk freely. But he said nothing. 

“Doubtless your children are living in this neighbor¬ 
hood?” I continued. 

“I have no children.” 

“Oh, then just you and your wife are living here in the 
old home?” 

“I am all alone. My wife died eight years ago.” 

I then thought again of the little cemetery on the hill. 
Something like a consciousness of Gray’s “Elegy” and Gold- 




198 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


smith’s “Deserted Village” and several other things came 
into my mind. 

A little later we were passing through a long driveway 
arched over by tall, stately cottonwoods, planted there by 
the old gardener of the Huttrische Bruder Gemeinde— the 
Society of the Brothers of Huter. Since he who planted 
and watered these trees is sleeping the long sleep in the 
Society’s sacred acre, they do not show the same painstaking 
care, for the new gardener knows not what pains and labors 
and hopes have gone into the sturdy trunks and leafy 
branches. 

To the left the orchard rises up to a higher table-land, 
on which stand the plain, long, substantial chalkstone build¬ 
ings. The one most visible through the orchard from the 
road below, was built many years ago by Dr. A. W. Bur¬ 
leigh. The Doctor was one of the most brilliant gentlemen 
that ever came to Dakota Territory. Trained in the best 
schools of the east, a skillful physician, then an able lawyer, 
politician, and forceful orator. At one time, in the sixties, he 
represented the Territory in Washington, where he enjoyed 
the personal friendship of Secretary Seward and President 
Lincoln, the latter of whom he much resembled in appearance. 
Dr. Burleigh brought his good wife and sons to this beautiful 
spot, planted an orchard and vineyard, set out the shade tree, 
built a commodious mansion, and filled it with the comforts 
and refinements of America’s highest culture. This place 
with its broad acres he sold to the present occupants. What 
a contrast! 

To one who does not understand, the Brotherhood has 
little charm. The simple souls here live a communistic life 
in the manner, as they suppose, of the early Christians. 
They believe in the simple life with all their heart. All 
finer touches are strictly against their tenets, being re¬ 
garded as worldliness. They preach and practice non- 
resistance. Christ came with a message of peace, and his 
true followers will not resort to force of any kind. War and 
litigation are of the Work of Darkness. To take thought 


POETS AND POETRY 


199 


of dress and house is sinful vanity. Our true estate is the 
spiritual world; that is, the inheritance of those who walk in 
humility, peace, and simplicity. This is the dominating mo¬ 
tive of these simple souls, whom outsiders usually judge as 
unprogressive and uncouth. 

These idealists (for such they are) are often referred to 
by the uniformed as “Rooshions.” Why these plain folks 
holding so tenaciously to their faith, language, and tradi¬ 
tions should be dubbed Russians is hard to understand. There 
is not a drop of Slavic blood in their veins. The founder of 
the sect was a German. They speak nothing but German— 
a German dialect spoken several hundred years ago—and 
they cling to that almost as tenaciously as to their ideas of 
the religion of Christ. 

As we drive up into the yard of this prosperous colony, 
we are reminded by a hock of geese that they once upon a 
time saved Rome. But as we come with peaceful intentions, 
we are cordially greeted by the manager of the Brotherhood. 

Yes, this settlement, like others of its kind and persua¬ 
sion, possesses fields and mills and barns and machinery 
and all that goes to make a model farm, and something else 
—some ancient manuscripts. The young teacher soon brought 
in several of them for inspection. They are books containing 
the doctrines of the founder of the Brotherhood, all written 
by some of the brothers in days of old, in German “print,” 
with the most pleasing exactness. The initial letters would 
do credit to a Medieval expert scribe. The paper used in 
these volumes is soft rag paper, such as one finds nowadays 
in fancy-priced editions de luxe. The title pages show dates 
1509 and 1520. As we sat waiting for a fall shower to pass 
by, our host expounded some features of the ancient, price¬ 
less volumes. 

Before the day closed we were retracing our way, leav¬ 
ing behind old Bon Homme, but carrying back with us a 
feeling that we had peered into the past and heard voices of 
long ago. 

WenzlafFs poetic style is admirably illustrated 


200 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


in one of his lighter poems, “In Spring-Time,” 
but more especially in his best poem (elegiacal in its 
nature) entitled “To The End of Time.” 

IN THE SPRING-TIME 

One name—when spring winds whisper softly— 

I hear amidst the green boughs’ leaves; 

The creek’s low song, the wild dove’s crooning— 

That name to me all nature breathes. 

One face I see in every blossom, 

That meekly hides within the grass; 

The evening clouds in hues of sunset 
Reflect that face before they pass. 

One dream so vague, so dreamy, vivid, 

Like music of a sylvan stream, 

Like fragrance from the prairie roses— 

My loved one is my constant dream. 


TO THE END OF TIME 

► i 

(In memory of Sarah F. Ward.) 

We should not weep nor always grieve, for all 
We bore her out beneath the somber pall 
To yonder sleepy hill. Though clouds surround 
And lone the height and chill the granite bound 
That marks where cerements invest and hold 
The ashes of a glowing life now cold 
E’en there the field-fowl pipes its heedless lay, 
And buds hide, waiting for a better day. 

What seek we there among the sinking mounds 
And pillared knolls, where oft the dirge resounds? 
Not there the soul, unmindful of the past, 

Midst shoreless darkness and decay is cast— 
That soul that from unfathomed depths the oil 
Of love poured out upon a parched soil. 




POETS AND POETRY 


201 


The hulls were burst—a wondrous garden grew 
And bloomed, and gleamed with heaven’s sparkling dew. 
Though anchored down, the branches loomed aloft 
To calmer heights, where zephyrs pure and soft 
Sang symphonies inspired not of dust, 

But breathed a mystic note of love and trust. 

We should not weep nor always grieve because 
Unaltered stands the bitterest of God’s laws. 

The day dawns red, yet quick its course is run, 

And darkness then engulfs—the work is done. 

But in that day we saw the gleam of eye 
That shines, though sun be darkened in the sky. 
Within that gleam a world of beauty lay, 

Which hope and sacrifice had built to stay. 

Ah, beauteous world, whose fields are ever fair 
And undefiled by Mammon’s greedy care! 

Its thousand hills with temples boldly crowned 
Proclaim that Truth shall reign the world around; 

Its thousands paths lead e’er to righteousness; 

Its lucid founts are streams of holiness. 

Why should we weep or sigh or even long, 

That without close shall be the inspired song? 

The song is sung; the storm-clouds now surround 
The lonely height where stands the granite bound. 
Yet even now the spirit of that rhyme 
Sings on and on until the end of time. 


Other good poems of WenzlafFs are: “Autumn 
Revery,” “Winter Flowers,” “The Blind Piper,” 
“The Meadow-Lark” and “The Four Bards.” 

In addition to his own composition, Wenzlaff 
is also a fine translator, especially from the German. 



202 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


His translation of “The Chaplet,” from “Uhland,” 
is a perfect piece of work. It follows: 

THE CHAPLET 

Yonder stands the mountain chaplet 
Looking quietly down the vale; 

There below by mead and brooklet 
Sings the shepherd boy so hale. 

Mournful tolls the bell from yonder, 

Awful sounds the funeral lay, 

Hushed is now the merry singer 
By the chanting far away. 

They are borne to graves up yonder 
Who enjoyed themselves below. 

Shepherd boy, ah! list young shepherd, 

’Twill be sung for thee just so! 


MISCELLANEOUS POETS 


E. L. ABEL 

Hundreds upon hundreds of miscellaneous 
poems have appeared in the newspapers and maga¬ 
zines of the state, from time to time, during the 
past thirty-five years, that have never been collected 
in permanent form. Some of these are extraordi- 
narilv strong. Others are mere outcrops of fantasy 
suited to some occasion of the moment. In the prep¬ 
aration of this book over 2,000 of them have been 
discarded. There are a few, however, which are 
entitled to preservation. One of these entitled, 
“Know Ye the Land?” ringing in state pride, written 
for a banquet by Hon. E. L. Abel, of Huron, is 
worthy of sudy: 

KNOW YE THE LAND? 

Know ye the land where the blue joint doth flourish, 

And cattle on prairies grow heavy with fat; 

Where the white-coated sheep in winter do nourish 
The grasses which cover the earth like a mat; 

Where the growing of wheat brings the gold from the east, 
Where people ne’er hunger but are ever at feast; 

Where the owner of sheep has a fortune in sight, 

And hard times are past while the future is bright; 

Where potatoes, rye, barley and long-headed oats 
M^ke the farmer’s life easy in the raising the shoats; 
Where the cow’s golden butter and the fruit of the hen 
Are the products which bring such large fortunes to men; 
Where the country is blessed with the richest of soil, 

And bountiful harvests reward man for his toil; 

Where bright gold and silver in profusion abound 
Where churches in plenty raise toward heaven their spires 


204 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And beautiful jasper for building is found; 

And schools in great numbers furnish learning’s desires; 
Where the song of the plow boy is heard early at morn 
As he goes forth to till the broad acres of corn; 

Where the maid’s rosy cheecks are the youth’s wild delight 

While their beautiful eyes shine like stars of the night; 

Where matrons meet age with faces so fair 

That they seem ever youthful, though silvered their hair; 

Where Hygeia’s blessings are showered upon all 

And summer keeps smiling until late in the fall; 

Where winters are short and soon melt into spring; 

Where the harvest is crowned by Mondamin, the king; 
Where the flower of its youth to rescue suffering afar, 
Promptly respond to the call of the nation to war? 

Know ye the land? ’Tis the land which we love, 

Which hath been bountifully blessed by the Father above; 
’Tis our fair South Dakota which nature has blest, 
According humanity a place of sweet rest; 

And today she invites the proud sons of the East 
To sit at her tables and partake of her feast. 


C. J. AISENBREY 

C. J. Aisenbrey is gaining recognition as a 
poetical writer. One of his best poems is: 

A SONG OF THE SUNSHINE STATE 

I love my mother state the best, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

The best state of the great northwest, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Sing all ye sons, sing of your state, 

The state that has no match nor mate, 

Oh, sing a song of Sunshine state, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 



POETS AND POETRY 


205 


From thee Pve wandered far and near, 
Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Still to my heart you are so dear, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 
Though far and wide IVe traveled o’er, 

In U. S. A. from shore to shore, 

But still above all I’ll thee adore, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Thy goldfields in thy western hills, 

Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Are rich with gold and copper mills, 
Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Thy fields are full of golden grain, 

Thy prairie plains have brought thee fame. 
All o’er the world I hear thy name, 
Sunshine state, my Sunshine state. 

Let’s sing fore’er of our great state, 
Sunshine state, our Sunshine state. 

Her glorious past all o’er narrate. 

Sunshine state, our Sunshine state. 
Though far away from her we be, 

E’en though we be across the sea, 

Still let us sing of our S. D. 

Sunshine state, our Sunshine state. 


A. E. BEAUMONT 

Among our miscellaneous poets, recognition 
must be given to A. E. Beaumont. His youthful 
reveries are fascinating. Three of his later poems 
are high grade. They are “Giving/’ “The Passing 
of the Falls,” and “Memorial.” The first one is given 
in full: 



206 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


GIVING 

There is in grace an ample store 
Of benediction, sent to bless 

The heart, whene’er it bows before 
The altar of unselfishness. 

And we receive no dearer gift 
Of happiness, than when we plan 

To leave our beaten path, and lift 
His burden from a fellow man. 

The stream of bounty long hath flowed 
From many a living spring supplied 

And every cheerful gift bestowed, 

Is to the giver multiplied. 

What tender joy the mother knows, 

That wells from Nature’s kindly spring, 

When to her infant’s lips there flows 
Her fruitful bosom’s offering. 

The blessings we receive from Heaven 
Refill the cup that we dispense: 

And by the largess we have given, 

Is measured out our recompense. 


W. E. BROWN 

Middle-aged folk remember with delight the 
poem entitled “Twenty Years Ago,” which appeared 
in many of the old school readers, and which was 
also set to music. A beautiful companion piece to 
it was written by W. E. Brown, of Meade county. 

TO AN OLD SCHOOL FRIEND 

The other day I wandered back 
To where we used to dwell, 



POETS AND POETRY 


207 


Reviewing scenes and village queens 
We thought we knew so well; 

And treading paths we used to run 
And shaking hands with everyone. 

And, George, my eyes grew dim with tears 
To see the changes there— 

The children grown, the aged flown, 

And gray the golden hair. 

For though we’re growing old, ’tis true, 
Old Father Time has been there too. 

The ancient mill of ill repute 
So long in sad decay, 

Where every week at hide and seek 
As boys we used to play, 

No longer towers toward the sky 
To greet the farmer’s distant eye. 

The school which stood beside the road 
In solitary state, 

The unfenced yard so bare and hard 
Where oft we toyed with fate, 

Has been remodeled, large and wide 
With trees and roofs on every side. 

The old board walks we overturned 
On every Halloween, 

The boards decayed with moss o’erlaid 
And grass grown up between, 

No longer echo to the tread 

But walks of stone are there instead. 

The cemetery on the hill 
Which used to seem so far 
Is drawing near from year to year 
As others cross the bar— 

A cavalcade beneath the sun 

n 

Then sadly all return but one. 


208 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


For life is like a downhill slide 
In youth the years go slow 
But gather way from day to day 
As down the hill they go— 

With added years we swift descend 
And all too soon have reached the end. 


ANDREW F. BURLEIGH, JR. 

Andrew F. Burleigh, Jr., has written a number 
of short poems. None of them, however, pertain 
strictly to South Dakota. They are general in their 
character and all of them are good. The following 
brief one will suffice to give his general style: 

IN MEMORIAM 

(To my Mother.) 

That tender voice, alas! is gone. 

Those beauteous orbs which brightly shone, 

That form seraphic, round which blazed 
A living halo, time has razed 
To silent dust. That angel-step, 

Which like a winged spirit swept 
With tinkling footfalls o’er life’s floor— 

Alas! it wakes no echo more. 

Those loving arms, once childhood’s nest, 

Now withering lie. That snowy breast, 

Love’s first elysium—death, alas! 

Has kissed it back to that it was. 

Those sweet lips, where love’s kisses grew— 

Alas! they now lie withering, too. 


B. W. BURLEIGH 

B. W. Burleigh wrote for us a number of poems 
that are clever in the extreme. But the one, above 
all others, that is destined to live, on account of its 




POETS AND POETRY 


209 


universality, is a delicate sketch entitled “Grand¬ 
ma. ” This is perhaps as nearly a completed whole 
as any poem in South Dakota literature. It is a 
moving bit of realism on a subject that is dear in 
the memory of everyone. 

My old Grandma used to say 
Always to us children, “Hey?” 

Dear old soul, she could not hear 
Till we shouted in her ear. 

Sometimes when the dog would bark, 

Grandma dear would say, “Hush, hark!” 
Sometimes when the cat would play, 

Grandma dear would answer, “Hey?” 

1 

I can see her sitting there, 

Knitting in her rocking chair. 

How we children thought it fun, 

Yelling by her side, to run, 

Hiding from her poor dim sight, 

Ere she got half through her fright! 

How we teased her every day, 

Laughing at her quaint old “Hey?” 

But when stripped all off for bed, 

And our evening prayer was said, 

We would never think of fear 
While Grandma was sitting near; 

But if she would take the light 
For a moment out of sight, 

We were glad to hear her say 
From the distant corner, Hey?” 

Many winters now have fled 
Since she watched beside my bed; 

Many summers passed away 
Since I’ve heard her answer, “Hey?” 


210 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Calmly rests her silv’ry head 
In the city of the dead, 

But I’d give the world today 
Just to hear her answer, “Hey?” 


ARTHUR L. CALDWELL 

One dare not ignore the power in a recent poem 
by Arthur Caldwell, entitled: 

THE STAMPEDE 

The red sun breaks through muddy lakes of haze and rifted 
cloud, 

And still and gray the prairies lay as moveless as the shruiid. 

But a distant roar was on the air, a rumble from afar, 

And a dust cloud brown was sweeping down from the blue 
horizon’s bar. 

Above the line the great horns shine, beneath, the sharp 
hoofs speed, 

And the solid ground shakes with the sound of a herd in full 
stampede. 

And close to the lead is a coal-black steed, and a boy with a 
dashing bay, 

Then a man with a roan who rides alone, whose hair is 
streaked with gray. 

While the West still glowed they mounted and rode, and the 
reckless race began, 

Through the dim starlight of the prairie night, and still they 
galloped on. 

For life is cheap when men must keep these runaway brutes 
beside, 

And until they stop, or the horses drop, it is ride and ride 
and ride. 



POETS AND POETRY 


211 


The sun, from high in a murky sky, shines hot on the dusty 
track 

Where two men ride by the great herd’s side, still led by 
the fiery black; 

An hour ago on a treacherous slough the gallant bay went 
down, 

And a young voice clear rang out a cheer for the men who 
galloped on. 

And shortening strides, tho his dust-gray sides the spurs 
have marked with red. 

He is out of the race, but into his place the gray-haired rider 
sweeps, 

And foot by foot and inch by inch to the head of the herd he 
creeps. 

And along the flank of the surging rank, over the trampling 
noise, 

The echoes break as his pistols speak in sharp and threaten¬ 
ing voice, 

Till the danger is past, and they turn at last, with heavy, 
plunging tread, 

Tired and blown, and the plucky roan swings slowly ’round 
ahead. 

Give praise to the old gray veteran bold, who turned the 
maddened throng 

Nor let it lack for the man with the black, who held the lead 
so long; 

And now the black is falling back, panting, with low-hung 
head, 

But what shall we add of the bare-faced lad, who knew that 
his race was done, 

When, helpless, he lay by his fallen bay, but cheered his 
comrades on? 

BEULAH CHAMBERLAIN 
Miss Beulah Chamberlain, daughter of the cele¬ 
brated Will Chamberlain (see major poets), is just 



212 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


beginning to sing to us through leading periodicals. 
Two of her short poems are herein given. 

• CIVILIZED 

(From “The Nation.”) 

Dirty and dull, she plods along: the street 
With sagging skirt and hair tucked out of sight 
Her Papoose, from his creaking cab, looks out 
Upon the hurrying crowd; his eyes, wild, bright, 
Hold tales of camp-fire dreams, of forest things, 

Of bending pines that whisper all the night. 

He cries a bit. The mother stills his cry 
With sticky colored candy, smooths his clothes; 

She peers for bargains as she passes by 
And stops before the moving-picture shows. 


SOMETIME 

(From “The Liberator.”) 

Somewhere the tree is growing 
That will be my bed; 

Cold white wood against cold white flesh— 
And the last prayer said. 

Sometime we’ll creep together 
And our dust’ as one, 

Will talk deep things with the gossiping rain. 
And the curious sun. 

But today the tree is singing, 

Pregnant with bursting flower, 

And glad in the dawn and starlight 
I live my hour. 


C. H. CREED 

C. H. Creed has written one poem strong enough 
to entitle him to a place in the literature of the state. 
It is rather unusual in its philosophic setting; yet, 
in many respects, it takes rank with some of our best 
productions: 




POETS AND POETRY 


213 


‘TASS ON” 

“Pass on, pass on!” We feel our steps impelled 
By hand invisible, our faces bent 
Toward the realm of death, whose shady hand 
Comes forth to grasp us, our brief vigor spent. 

And ever as we wend the weary trail 
That awful and unseeming power around 
Cries with a tone unheard, unfelt, but known. 
“Pass on, pass on thy life’s resistance round.” 

This busy world a mighty highway is, 

A rugged way which ends in shadow dense, 

Down which the human cavalcade, alike 
Both great and small pass on their journey thence. 
And as I look, the restless, hurrying mass 
Of human shapes goes on before my eyes; 

Some see the valley long before they come, 

While others meet the shades in sheer surprise, 
Each has his tale of travel to relate, 

Words of the rabble bear the selfsame song, 

But here are some who by their acts, anon, 

Stand out in bold relief against the throng. 

“Pass on, pass on!” The ever goading words 
Sound like a knell in maiden beauty’s ears, 

Forcing her toward the overhanging pall, 
Quenching with darkness all the sobs and tears, 
Tearing her from the gay and laughing friends, 
Mocking the shadow in their own conceit, 

Yet, ever in accordance with the power 
Pushing the dust with glad unknowing feet. 

“Pass on, pass on!” The aged one would turn 
And face once more the gladsome way of yore, 
When with his happy comrades, all his thought 
Was to the flowery by-way not the fore. 

Yet ever though in memory he turn, 

His steps, impelled by that unheard command, 

Move ever onward to the ghastly shades 
To join with others in an unseen land. 


214 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


‘‘Pass on!” The priest with humble step and slow. 
With never backward look or faltering heart, 

With hands outstretched to bless his lowly flock 
Approaches slow the dull and dusky mart 
Where death is given for life and life for death, 
And as the ages onward roll, 

The body and the pleasure of a life 
Are bartered for the lifetime of a soul. 

So in the shadow strides the priest, in hand 
The crucifix to which his faith is pinned, 

And as the darkness closes over him 

His churchly robe drifts backward on the wind. 

“Pass on, pass on!” A youth with buoyant step 
A fair bride leads adown the crowded way, 
Whose white hands reach imploringly above 
As “On, pass on!” He must the word obey. 

“Pass on, pass on!” The turbaned Hindoo strides, 
And peers beyond the gloom for Buddha’s end 
And feels himself a mark of Allah’s grace. 

The Christian white man of the favored lands, 

The simple red man of the western plain, 

The swart Egyptian, and the Pagan Moor 
Would minister to each other’s misled brain. 

And yet the Christian and the Pagan feet, 

The self-same pathway of the self-same hour 
Unto the self-some shadows do traverse, 

Impelled forever by the self-same power. 

Then let us be resigned and when the hour 
Arrives when we must meet the shadows dense 
Like to the red men in their native haunts 
Go strike in silent awe the weakened tents, 

And as the gathering shadows of the night 
In silence take the place of ruddy day, 

Cast not a look of sorrow or regret 
But in the gloaming silent steal away. 


POETS AND POETRY 


215 


LOUIS N. CRILL 

Louis N. Crill, of Elk Point, is a prolific writer 
of hit-and-miss poems for various occasions. He is 
a complete master of Norwegian dialect. One poem 
of this character will suffice to reveal his style: 

BEEG OLE 

He bane da boss ov our precinct 
For forty year or more, 

Ay skal remember how he vinked 
Yust many times before 
As fellers ’round de polls did gadder 
An mak ov hem da quast, 

Vich teeket dhey skal vote, an vhadder 
Dhes man or dhat bane bast. 

Beeg Ole alvays bane on hand 
Vhen caucus time coom ’round 
He fex do teeket, how he stand, 

An tal dhem et bane sound. 

Beeg Ole alvays bane just on da square, 

An shat da reason be, 

Da fallers all skal tank et fair, 

An vote just as he say. 

He bane da prince ov politiks 
He know ets ens an outs, 

Yust vhen to play da cards for tricks, 

Yust vhen to mak da shouts, 

An dhes bane vhy all candidate, 

Who luke for office sure, 

Skal try to get on Ole’s slate, 

For dhen da bane secure. 

Repoblican or Damocrat, 

No mooch do defference, 

He alvys knew yust vhere he’s at, 

Vas naver on da fence. 


216 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


An vhile he bane a party man, 

As party matters rast, 

He satisfy hemsalf, an dhan 
He vork yust for da bast. 

Beeg Ole lost hes holt, da day 
Da laws bane changed to mak 
Da polls wan hondred feet avay 
From vhere da boss could spak. 

An from dhat day hes spirit droop, 

No more he seemed da same, 

Yust lak da vorld vas closing oop 
To tak from hem hes fame. 

Beeg Ole long ago has trekked 
Across da golden sand; 

Ay know he’ll vork and try elect 
Da bast man en dhat land. 

Ay ’spac he’ll be da furst Ay see, 

A standing by da gate, 

Yust vaiting anxiously for me, 

To boost hes candidate. 

WILL DILLMAN 

In addition to his beautiful “Manoscripts,” Will 

Dillman, as intellectual writer, has given to us a 
small volume of musings, entitled “Across the 
Wheat.” In a general way they all conform to the 
character of the following, particularly as to style 
of composition: 


THE MOODS 

I conned a poet’s book from page to page, 

And marked the many moods in which he sung. 
And some were early songs, and bold, and rung 
Of love and wine, and passions, and the rage 
Of his wild, violent heart. And some the sage, 


POETS AND POETRY 


217 


Man-grown, had writ; and here, it seemed, the 
tongue 

Of mighty genius, free and curbless, flung 
Its priceless thoughts to men. But in old age, 

In the calm autumn, free from pang or pain, 

O, then his songs were sweetest to the ear; 

He sang of sunsets in the golden west, 

Of yellow harvest moons, and gathered grain, 

Of heaven, and the hour we tarry here— 

I loved the tranquil songs of age the best. 


MRS. E. A. GOVE 

A new volume, containing about forty choice 
poems, is one written by Mrs. E. A. Gove, of Water- 
town. One of these poems follows: 

AUTUMN 

Autumn leaves have fallen, fallen; 

All the trees stand brown and bare— 

Birds have flown and flowers have faded, 

And our dreams that were so fair, 

Are like the leaves of autumn, 

They have lost their brightest hue 
No springtime can revive them 
And no summer life renew. 

April rains may wake the violets, 

Summer to her flowers be true— 

Grasses wave o’er hill and meadow 
Warmed and fed by sun and dew. 

Other eyes will beam as fondly, 

Other hearts their offerings bring, 

Other voices chant as gaily 
All the songs we used to sing. 

In our memory still will linger, 

Hallowed by life’s twilight glow, 

Thoughts as true and words as tender, 

Whispered in the long ago. 




218 


LITERATURE OF ^OUTH DAKOTA 


But for us are deepening shadows 
Lengthening on the autumn plain, 

Love’s sweet dream and youth’s bright visions 

Never will come back again. 

✓ / 

On the wave of Time’s swift river, 

Braving storm and wind and gale, 

Cheered by Nature’s kindly voices 
Down the ebbing tide we sail, 

Past the shoals of superstition— 

Past the gloom of Sorrow’s night; 

Vanished are the ghosts and goblins 
That allure us and affright. 


Grateful for the boon of living 
In this grand enlightened day, 

For the love of truth and knowledge 
That his glorified our way— 

For the sun’s and moon’s effulgence, 
For the stars that calm and high 
Down through spaces vast and lonely 
Drop their plummets from the sky. 


Thankful for the priceless friendship 
Of the trusted, tried and true, 

Thankful even for the falseness 

That has pierced us through and through; 

For supreme above all others 

For the dream so long foretold, 

For the hope that something better 
Will the coming years unfold. 

To the ocean deep and boundless— 

To that vast and shoreless sea— 

From whose bourne none e’er returneth— 
Called the great eternity. 


POETS AND POETRY 


219 


With the good of all the ages, 

With the wise of every clime, 

With the savants and the sages 
Who have made their lives sublime, 
With the heroes that have given 
All that human hearts can give, 
With the martyrs who have perished 
That a trampled truth might live; 

To that realm of truth and shadow 
Where the countless millions be, 

We with silent tread are moving 
Sure to share their destiny. 

What betide or what await us, 
Mysteries mortals may not know— 
Without fear or faith’s unreason 
To Earth’s Mother arms we go. 


MRS. BERNICE S HAGMAN 
Another poet who has written several charming 
selections is Mrs. Bernice S. Hagman, of Water- 
town. From the numerous poems collected, one 
only has been selected for re-production. 

NATURE’S SONGS 

At the evening twilight’s falling 
Have you heard the night-bird calling 
To his mate and little birdlings in the nest? 

Have you heard the gentle sighing 
Of the night-wind slowly dying 
As about her the earth wrapped her mantle of rest? 

Have you heard the water splashing 
From the drowsy cattle plashing 
Have you listened to the music of the wood? 

Have you heard the insects humming 
And the wary partridge thrumming 
Have you wondered if they could be understood? 



220 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And the tiniest crystal rill 
Gurgling and tumbling down the hill 
Till it lapped and kissed the giant monarch's feet. 
Did it not a lesson teach you 
And did not a message reach you 
In the cadence of these nature songs so sweet? 


I have harkened to their story 
How they show their Father’s glory 
By just living as he tells them to, content; 
So may we if we are willing 
All his kind commands fulfilling 
Be as happy as our blessed Master meant. 


JAMES FREMONT HALL 
James Fremont Hall, the student-poet of Yank¬ 
ton College, who enjoyed the unique distinction of 
being called to a membership on the faculty of his 
Alma Mater on the day of his graduation, must be 
accorded recognition as a poet by reason of the fol¬ 
lowing poem (in addition to many others), which 
he wrote during his early college days. It bears 
prima facia evidence that had he not died at an early 

age, he would have made a literary record for him¬ 
self. 

IN HIBERNIS 


A shroud of white above the faded green; 

A rigid corse, appareled for the tomb; 

And all about a hateful marble sheen, 

That by its glare intensifies the gloom. 

Who is the dead that ’neath these trappings lies, 
A haunting bait for morbid curious eyes? 

Whose hands o’erclasp the heart-deserted breast? 
Whose name upon the coffin plate is graved? 
Were soothing masses chanted to his rest? 

Or did he pray, whom Stygian waters laved? 



POETS AND POETRY 


221 


The earth, it is, that lies in pallor here; 

The earth that seemed so far from death in May. 
What voice can tell how vast the gulf and drear, 

May ope’ twixt rosy dawn and twilight grey! 

Now lo, a storm across his breast careens, 

Boreas bursts his icy magazines, 

And tears and wrenches at the shrieking trees. 

Rolls up the snows to lash their parent cloud, 

E’en digs the hills, as hungering to seize 
The insects cowering ’neath the hillside’s shroud. 

While thus I saw, and wondered at it all— 

And wondered if the earth would bloom again, 

And wondered if Death’s sodden chain and ball 

Were never stricken from the souls of men; 

While thus I wondered—sudden music woke: 

(Perhaps some spirit to my spirit spoke) 

“Awake from thy visions thou saturine being, 

Nor mourn for the sunlight as lost. 

Neither Summer nor Sun from the conflict are fleeing, 
And soon thou wilt see their bright scimeters freeing 
The earth from the fetters of frost. 

“Go burrow the snow flanks and ask the primroses, 

If theirs is the sleep of the dead? 

Go ask the arbutus if e’er she supposes 
Eternal the pillow on which she reposes— 

Eternal the snows of her bed? 

“Close, close by the ice of the frigid Sierra 
The orange blooms sprinkle the sod; • 

While, alike, from the sands of the charnel Sahara 
Burst withering floods of the waters of Mara, 

And floods of the nectar of God. 


222 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


“Oh read, ere the locks at thy temples have whitened, 
The parable written in frost: 

That nothing which once ’neath the sunlight has 
brightened, 

No soul which the touch of God’s fingers has lightened, 
Is ever eternally lost.” 


WILLIS E. JOHNSON 

President Willis E. Johnson, of the South Da¬ 
kota State College, in addition to his “Sunshine 
State” song, has written some dainty verse. One of 
his poems has gained interstate recognition. It 
follows: 

THE TEST OF COURAGE 

To the battle’s front do we need to go 

For the place where our courage is tried? 

There’s a bigger fight just to keep right, 

And for this men have fought and died. 

In the quiet walks of the lowliest life, 

Where the eyes of the world may not see, 

Many a battle is fought and a vict’ry wrought 
That’s as great as a triumph can be. 

Can you dare to be kind when wounded sore, 

When deceived by those you thought true? 

Can you dare to be sweet when the sting of defeat 
Is piercing you through and through? 

Can you dare to be faithful in hidden things, 

Which from praise or from blame may be free 0 ' 

Can you dare put your will and an artists’s skill 
In your work, howe’er humble it be? 

Can you dare to smile when vexed and worn, 

When everything fails that you trust? 

Can you dare to keep pure and defy the allure 
Or the graft and the greed and the lust; 



POETS AND POETRY 


223 


’Tis a courageous band that is seeking recruits, 
’Tis an army with God in the van; 

And the everyday life gives the biggest of strife, 
And a test of the best that’s in man. 


JOHN CHRISTIAN LINDBERG 
A great variety of choice poems from the pen 
of Prof. J. C. Lindberg of the Aberdeen Normal are 
just now filtering their way into print. From these 
we cull one only to show his style: 

THE CALL OF THE WEST 
When day is aweary and draws to its close 
And shadows their lengths have unrolled 
The lingering sun, with its Midas-like touch, 
Transforms all the earth into gold. 

And just as it leaves, midst a halo of light, 

The sphere where in sadness I roam, 

It pauses one moment and says: “Come away, 

Afar to the west,—to your home.” 

Then quickly I reach for my hat and my staff, 

The goal of my dream is in sight; 

But lo! as I follow the sun disappears, 

The glow dies away,—comes the night. 

And every evening it beckons anew 
And whispers to me as I roam; 

“I” build you a acstle of gold if you come 
With me to the west,—to your home.” 

But oft as I start my fairy world fades 
And leaves me in sadness behind; 

Then whispers a voice in the star-lit night: 

“Take hope, soon your rest you shall find, 

There cometh an evening of quiet and peace, 

T’will find you where’er you may roam; 

Those beckoning beams will then take you along 
Afar to the west,—to your home.” 



224 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


W. J. McMurtry 

Two of the weightiest philosophical productions 
in “Dakota Rhymes” are two sister poems, by W. J. 
McMurtry, entitled “Morning” and “Evening.” They 
are long and cannot be incorporated herein, but 
should be studied as a part of our literature, from 
the book in which they appear. 



A DAKOTA SUNSET 
The flaming beacons of the west arise, 

The clouds all girt with gold and purple light, 
Proclaiming that the day is lost in night, 

While dusky twilight and the tender skies 
Suffuse the flaming embers of the west; 

And glowing spirals twine about the clouds— 

The fleecy mass is made a pink-white mound, 

As the tired sun sinks down to take its rest. 

So let us hope our last departing days, 

When death, our somber rival, claims its own, 

May light, with hope and joy before the throne 
Of Grace; our influence shine with gladsome rays 
Of hope and peace to those who still are left 
Below, of heaven’s joy and peace bereft. 

The above poem was contributed to Purple and Gold, 1909, by Miss 
Nellie Pyle, Class of 1911, Huron College. It was reproduced in the 
college bulletin, and then reprinted by the New York and by the San 
Francisco daily newspapei’s. 




POETS AND POETRY 


225 


MABEL K. RICHARDSON 
Of recent years the best poetry magazines in 
the nation are using numerous selections from the 
pen of Mabel K. Richardson, Librarian of the Uni¬ 
versity of South Dakota. Her work is high class 
and merits careful study. The following poem is 
indicative of her general style: 

THE PERSIAN RUG 

(From “American Poetry.”) 

Why should I wish to walk, insatiate, 

Upon a Persian rug? Thereon to stand 
An alien, knowing only reprimand 
In every clock-tick for importunate 
Rude, restless Western feet that violate 
The patient passion of an Eastern hand. 

No kin of mine the ancient pattern planned. 

That foreign fragrance, too, must suffocate. 

My feet shall seek the cooling prairie grass, 

White wind-blown snows lie lightly where I pass, 
Smooth, sun-baked trails on many a sunny plain, 

And by my lonely cabin hearth I fain 

Would lay wild shaggy pelts, from you crevasse. 

O’ let the Persian have his rug again. 


REV. AND MRS. LESLIE SPRAGUE 
Reverend and Mrs. Leslie Sprague have found 
a place in our hearts as well as in our literature— 
he as lecturer, preacher, social worker and poet, she 
as a combined writer of born prose and poetry of 
the first rank. Herein may be found one of her short 
poems entitled “Peace,” which gives her general 
style. She writes blank verse almost exclusively. 
Following this is her prose parable, “The Land of 
Ease.” 



226 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


PEACE 

The time draws near when Mary crooned her mother-song 
Above the babe of Bethlehem, 

And angels sang of peace on earth, 

Good will to all mankind. 

Men ceased their toil and left their flocks; 

The silent stars looked down upon a world 
New-wakened to the thought of brotherhood. 

The time draws near to keep the festival of peace— 

Listen, brothers! Is that Mary’s cradle song, 

Or the wail of a brown mother weeping over homeless babes? 
Do I hear the angels singing, 

Or the bugle’s call to battle and the clash of arms? 

I cannot see the stars for flame and smoke. 

Brothers, my heart is troubled; tell me what it means! 

The time draws near to sing the Christ-child’s song, 

To bear our offerings to the Prince of Peace; 

But every breeze brings sounds of war. 

0, countrymen of mine, throw down your arms! 

Let the next sea-wind blow clear of battle smoke, 

That we may lift our eyes to the guiding stars; 

Let them lead us to the Christ-child’s feet. 


THE LAND OF EASE 

It was the harvest time in the land of service. All day 
long the men followed after the sickles gathering the fallen 
grain into sheaves. All day long a boy ran to and from the 
river, bearing a water-can and offering drink to those who 
labored. 

When the noontide came they paused for a little and 
rested under the trees and told stories while they ate their 
bread and meat. 

When the sun was setting and the sheaves were bound, 
they went singing to their homes, and the children heard 



POETS AND POETRY 


227 


their voices and ran to meet them, and the mothers came 
smiling to the doorways. 

But the boy who bore the water-can lingered behind. 

He was weary and he said to himself, “I have heard of 
a land where one need not labor all the day. It lies over the 
mountains towards the setting sun. When I have found it 
I shall not need to carry the water-can or glean after the 
reapers any more. ,, 

So he stole away and went up the mountain path in 
the twilight. Darkness fell and he was afraid, but still he 
went on. The path grew steep and difficult, and once he 
thought he heard the harvesters singing below. 

A. longing to go back came over him, but he did not turn, 
he went on, his heart heavy with thinking that no one would 
carry water to them tomorrow and they would be very 
thirsty, laboring in the hot sun. He said to himself, “When 
I have found the land of ease I will come back and tell them 
and they will be glad, and they will forgive me that I left 
them before the harvest was done.” 

At last when he had gone a long way, he came to a 
place where he could see green foothills lying below, and he 
hastened on. thinking to rest on the fragrant grass; but when 
he came to the hills he saw a brown valley with villages here 
and there and vineyards and orange groves making green 
spots in the broad stretch of sandy soil, and he did not pause, 
but followed a dusty roadway leading down into +he nearest 
town. 

There was no sound of busy life about the streets. The 
cottage doors were open, but he heard no household song. 

Before one a group of men were sitting half asleep, the 
sun shining full upon them, but they did not seem to mind. 

The boy spoke to them and asked, “What place is this?” 

After a little one answered “This is the land of ease.” 

And the boy said, “I have come a long way in search of 
it, may I sit here with you?” 

And they said, “Yes.” But no one rose to make room 
for him or to offer him water or to ask when he had eaten 


228 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


food; so he sat down on the ground near them and waited. 

When the sun was lower they went into the house and 
he followed them. The men ate and allowed him to help 
himself, but they did not offer him anything or ask him 
whence he came, nor did they speak much among themselves, 
and he began to feel very lonely. When they had eaten they 
fell asleep in their chairs and the boy lay down on the floor 
and slept through the night, and in his sleep he saw the 
sunlight falling on the fields of ripened grain and heard the 
voices of the reapers calling him to bring his water-can and 
share their bread and meat. When he awoke there were 
tears upon his cheeks. His companions still slept, and he 
went out to walk in the vineyards. The valley was very 
beautiful in the early morning and he forgot that he had 
been sad, but when he came back he said to the men, “The 
grapes are getting over-ripe, shall we not gather and store 
them?” And the men said, “Why should we? The oranges 
will soon be ripening and when they are gone other grapes 
will be on the vines.” And they sat down before the door 
again and the boy sat down with them. But by and by he 
grew weary of the silence and of watching the shadows on 
the distant mountains, and he said, forgetting what land he 
was in, “Is it a holiday? Then why do we not sing?” They 
answered, “It is not a holiday, is it not enough to sit in the 
sun?” Then he asked if he might bring water for the noon¬ 
tide meal, and they said to each other, “It is always so with 
those who come over the mountains. When he has been here 
longer he will be content. He will become like us.” 

Then the boy sat silent thinking, would be become like 
them, content only to eat and drink and sleep? Was there 
only indifference in the land where he thought happiness 
dwelt? 

That night he slept as before and he thought he heard 
the reapers calling to him for water, and in the early morn¬ 
ing he arose and left the men sleeping, and ran up the dusty 
roadway toward the foothills, and on and on till the sun was 
high and he could look back and see the brown valley shim- 


POETS AND POETRY 


229 


mering in the heat. Then he climbed more slowly up the 
path over which he had come, and at last he could see his 
own valley and the river winding through it and the sickles 
gleaming in and out as the grain fell before them, and the 
men following, leaving a long line of yellow sheaves as they 
went. Then he ran again and found his water-can and filled 
it at the river’s brink, and his heart grew light as he carried 
it, and the laborers gathered about him to drink, asking, 
“Where hast thou been so long?” But he only shook his 
head and answered, “It is better here.” And all day long 
he ran to and from the river bearing his water-can, and 
when night came he was weary, but his face was bright and 
he went singing home with the reapers. When the children 
came to meet him he thought, how beautiful they are, and 
when the mothers smiled from the doorways he thought, 
they must be like the angels he had once heard the good 
priest read about. 

And ever after he was happy in the land of service. 


PIONEERS 

(By Reverend Leslie Sprague.) 

There are lonely graves in a lonely land 
Where the shadows of evening linger long, 

In which are laid the pioneer band 
Who bravely labored, heart and hand, 

Enduring through years, with courage strong, 

To make a place for cities to stand. 

Some broke the new sod with plows of steel, 

Some delved in the earth for the treasure of' mines 
Some, builders of homes, the sturdy and leal, 

Set their hearts to the making of heaven real; 
While bravely among them some, called divines. 
Strove to teach strong men in prayer to kneel. 

A hard life they lived in the land so new, 

Far away from the homes which once they knew, 



230 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


From the scenes that fond memories brought to view; 
Yet, rich was their life, far richer than 
A life of ease with challenges few. 

The Promised Land of the days of yore, 

By Moses was seen from Pisgah’s height. 

He led the poor Hebrews o’er desert and moor 
Through the years of their journeyings, tired and sore, 
But not his the joy to walk in the light 
Which through all his days shone only before. 

The pioneers saw the promise fulfilled 
Which was spoken in hearts that nobly dared. 

They entered the land, its terrors stilled, 

The forests felled, the virgin soil tilled. 

If through hardships sore they after fared, 

They saw begun the things they had willed. 

The lonely graves in a lonely land 
Are objects now of honors rare, 

As a throng is coming from distant strand, 

From village and town, to the outer rand 
Of the civilized earth, all glad to share 
In the blessings that now are near at hand. 


C. G. ST. JOHN 

Prof. C. G. St. John, of Clear Lake, has written 
a few choice poems. One of his very best ones is his 
“Veterans’ Day,” written for the G. A. R. in 1902. 
Another one, less powerful, but studiously historical, 
is also given: 

THE FIRST REGIMENT 
O’er Dakota’s fertile plain 

A 

Came the war of the “Maine”, 

And it stirred the blood within each patriot heart. 



POETS AND POETRY 


231 


When they heard the call to arms, 

Many left their shops and farms, 

And resolved that they would do a soldier’s part 

They were gathered at Sioux Falls, 

Where they heard the bugle calls, 

And they saw the lines a-drilling all in blue. 

Then they deemed it naught but joys 
To be honest soldier boys, 

While they camped beside the waters of the Sioux. 

O’er the granite ledge they walked, 

Of the coming days they talked, 

And the daring deeds that some of them would do; 

But, ’twas little thought they bore 
What the future had in store, 

As they dreamed in peace beside the placid Sioux. 

But, at last the orders came, 

They must cross the raging main; 

Of that fighting with the foe they little knew. 

They must leave their sweethearts gay, 

Leave their parents old and gray, 

Leave their camp beside the willow fringed Sioux. 

When the parting day had come, 

Fathers, Mothers gathered ’round 
There to bid their soldier boys a last adieu. 

Some of them would ne’er return, 

And it made those old hearts yearn, 

As the train bore off their bonny lads in blue. 

On and on those loved ones sped, 

Where the path of duty led, 

O’er the plains and through the mountain pass they whirled. 
O’er old ocean’s briny waves, 

Though it led to nameless graves, 

They would proudly bear “Old Glory” ’round the world. 


232 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


In Luzon’s wild darks and damps, 

By her lakes and fever swamps, 

Some are lying where they hear no bugle call 
In the fight from day to day 
Gallant men have passed away, 

With no fond ones near to care for those who fall. 

Many anxious days have passed 
Since we saw those dear ones last, 

And we know that some have fallen in the strife. 
How those fond old parents mourn 
For the boys who’ll ne’er return, 

And ’twill ever cast a shadow on their life. 

Yes, those laddies all were brave, 

And some fill a hero’s grave 
Where they fell beside the trenches of the foe. 
South Dakota’s won a name 
By her gallant soldiers’ fame; 

But, the glory ne’er can pay the mother’s woe. 


MRS. ETHEL BROOKS STILLWELL 
Two sisters from Clay County write splendid 
poetry. One is Mabel K. Richardson; the other, 
her sister, Mrs. Ethel Brooks Stillwell. Mrs. Still¬ 
well's productions are commanding the literary at¬ 
tention of the nation. Her prize poem, entitled 
“Love Me No More,” and the one entitled “Ances¬ 
tors,” both of which appeared in 1922, are - extra¬ 
ordinary productions. We use another recent one: 

THE RETURN 

Have you seen the monkey flowers spilling down the moun¬ 
tain hollows? 

Do you know the dusty fragrance that is noon on Sun¬ 
set trail? 



POETS AND POETRY 


233 


Have you seen the heat-haze shimmer where the winding 
ribbon follows 

In and out the ragged ruffles, sheer above the shining 
vale? 

Echo mountain, wonder visioned, high and hot the slim trail 
winding; 

Still and cool the narrow canyon, purple shadowed Rubio 

Years ago, in golden summer—bitter sweet the swift re¬ 
minding! 

There I roved with Carmencita,—years—and years— 
and years ago. 

Carmencita! Nimble footed, raven haired, sloe eyed and 
slender, 

How I loved her dusky beauty, red lipped laughter clear 
and low! 

How I loved her flaming sweetness, pride that brooked no 
tame surrender, 

How my hot young soul adored her,—years—and years 
—and years ago! 

Manuel, her brown young lover, nursed the jealous rage 
that tore him, 

Traced our steps one fateful morning, found us as the 
shadows fell. 

Swift the onset, brief the conflict, like a child I fell before 
him. 

Carmencita crowned the victor—turned and smiled on 
Manuel. 

All the sky was flaming sunset, all the vale was gleaming 
glory, 

Silver veiled and purple shadowed all the depths of 
Rubio, 

And the monkey flowers spilling down the ragged promon¬ 
tory— 


234 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


And I left them there, together,—years—and years— 
and years ago. 

High and lone on Echo Mountain, where the pleasure trolley 
passes, 

Hangs a track man’s flimsy cabin, where his nine brown 
Ninos dwell, 

Carmencita, old and stolid, in the cooling pine shade-masses, 

Heavy armed and sombre featured, washing shirts for 
Manuel. 

Does she see the green-gold valley curve its gleaming length 
below her? 

Does she see the monkey flowers spilling down the cliffs 
above ? 

Carmencita, old and stolid, none who knew would ever know 
her. 

Love did this to Carmencita. Does she, then, remember 
love? 

Does the old smile ever linger on those close-drawn lips, I 
wonder? 

Can those sombre eyes rekindle? If I whispered, would 
she know? 

Does remembrance ever hover where the winding trail dips 
under? 

Carmencita! Madre Dios! Years — and years — and 
years ago! 


FLORA M. SWIFT 

The real value of a friend has been beautifully 
pictured for us by Flora M. Swift in 

LIFE’S BEST GIFT 
On the shore of the great unknown, 

All tremblingly, I stood alone, 

Waiting till Death should kindly come 
To me, and claim me as his own. 



POETS AND POETRY 


235 


But Death, unkind as Life, passed by. 
Unheeding my despairing cry; 

I could not lay my burden down; 

Alas, for me! I could not die. 

Then in my anguish, did I call, 

“O life! Since Death has taken all, 

And left me in my bitter woe, 

On me, I pray, let one gift fall.” 

And life smiled back, “Not yet the end; 
O patience, heart, and I will send 
My first, most precious gift to thee.” 
The treasure came; it was a friend. 


E. B TRE FETHREN 

Away back in 1896, the Rev. E. B. Tre Fethren 
issued an inspiring volume of both prose and poetry 
filled with wit, humor, pathos and philosophy. The 
prose productions, including his oration which won 
second place in a contest, are exceptionally brilliant. 
His poems cover hit-and-miss topics, all strongly 
ethical in their character. In them he employs with 
ease a number of varying styles of composition. 
Embodied in the volume is one entitled “South Da¬ 
kota, Onward!” first published in September, 1895. 

SOUTH DAKOTA, ONWARD! 

(Dedicated to the homes of our State.) 

Be this thy watchword on thy banner bright, 

By bugle call and clarion note proclaimed; 

In each fierce struggle for the cause of right 
Until the “beasts of Ephesus” are chained. 

Our homes now ask thy noblest, bravest blood— 
Thy sons and daughters, choicest of the land,— 

To stand as once our patriot fathers stood, 

While wresting freedom from a tyrant’s hand. 



236 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


A bondage worse then old New England’s sons 
Or negro of the sunny South e’er knew, 

One which the stoutest heart well shuns, 

O, South Dakota land, now threatens you! 

Clear as the sun, fair as the full-orbed moon, 
And terrible as bannered panoply 
Shall march our hosts until the strife be done 
And Victory shall crown the hard-fought day. 

Then, rouse ye, heroes of the coming strife! 

Let “Onward” be your watchword evermore; 

Nor falter, though our God demand your life, 
Until the struggle for our homes be o’er! 


GEO. 0. VAN CAMP 

A touching bit of patriotic verse that appeared 
in 1916 and found its way across the continent was 
a poem written by Captain George 0. Van Camp, of 
Highmore. He had served as a private, and later 
as captain, of a local militia company at Highmore. 
But his health had given way, and he had gone to 
Texas to recuperate. When the trouble with the 
Mexicans was at its height in 1916, and the Fourth 
South Dakota Infantry was called to the border, Van 
Camp tried to reenlist as a private in his old com¬ 
mand, so as to go to the front with the troops. But 
the surgeon before whom he appeared at San 
Antonio, Texas, for his physical examination, pro¬ 
nounced him “Unfit to Fight.” That night, sitting 
alone at his typewriter in the room in which he did 
his journalistic work on the San Antonio Express 



POETS AND POETRY 


237 


he gave vent to his pent-up feelings, and robed his 
thoughts in the following verses: 

“UNFIT TO FIGHT” 

“Unfit to fight” tersely the surgeon put it, 

Unfit! Good God! If he but knew 
The battle I have struggled through; 

A battle lasting days and nights and months and years, 

A battle to the death 
For breath— 

“Unfit to fight?” Yes, I suppose I am unfit, 

And yet I wonder—if that surgeon knew 
How, night after night, I fought the fight 
In bitter struggle with despair, 

With sweat pouring down through matted hair, 

And death waiting there, so tempting 
In that bottle on the chair— 

If he would still have said: “Unfit to fight?” 

Home, mother, family, sweetheart, friends—all put behind 
That I might fight this battle with my mind, 

The battle every hopeless one must fight, 

When death seems good, and life is only fright. 

With rotting lungs and wheezing breath, 

A man-shunned outcast, wishing only death; 

But I battled on, and in a way I won until that night 
The surgeon said: “You are unfit to fight.” 

You boys down on the border cannot know 
The battles fought by those who could not go 
By those who were pronounced “Unfit to fight,” 

And so, tonight, 

When taps have sounded, slowly, sweet and clear 
And thoughts float back to those you hold most dear, 
Perhaps you’ll breathe a prayer into the night 
For those who stayed at home, “unfit to fight.” 


238 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


FANNIE E. VAN CAMTEN 

Of the scattered poems from the pen of Fannie 
E. Van Camten (nee Fannie E. Knapp), the one on 
“Sowing and Reaping” has been selected. 

When we sow, we sow in faith, 

For the seed must buried lie 

Many days before we see 
Signs of harvest by and by. 

When we plant, we plant in faith, 

For the growth of trees is slow. 

Many summers must we wait 
For the perfect fruit to grow. 

When we pray, pray we in faith 
As we sow and plant and trust, 

Never doubting while we wait, 

That our God is faithful, just? 

Or do we in doubt and fear 
Murmur at the long delay? 

Mourn because we have to wait? 

Cry that God has turned away? 

Say we will not sow, because 
Harvests yield not on the morn? 

Say we will not pray because 
Patient hope brings oft but scorn? 

Better both to sow and pray; 

And in strongest faith believing, 

We shall some not distant day 
Know the blessing of receiving. 

EDWIN VAN CISE 

One of the best individual poems in the litera¬ 
ture of the state is an old one written by Edwin Van 



POETS AND POETRY 


239 


Cise and published in the Rapid City Journal in 
August, 1878. It follows: 

BEAUTIFUL RAPID RIVER 

O, Rapid River! beautiful stream, 

Gliding along like a happy dream, 

Under the sun and the moon’s pale beam; 
Gladdening all with thy limpid flow, 

Clear as crystal and cold as snow, 

Thy sparkling waters come and go,— 

Beautiful Rapid River! 


Here of old on thy grassy banks, 

The deer and the antelope came in ranks, 

And the roe and the fawn played pretty pranks— 
Nor ever a hunter came to harm, 

Nor a rifle shot to make alarm, 

In the winter cold, or the summer warm,— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 


Here the buffalo wandered free, 

Hordes on hordes with no man to see, 

Grazing in royal liberty— 

Or coming down to thy streamlet’s brink, 
Where their heavy feet in the soft turf sink, 
Of thy pearly waters take their drink,— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 

We can not tell, for we do not know, 

What may have been in the long ago, 

When thy waters kept their faithful flow, 
Taking no note of passing time, 

Rushing on to a warmer clime, 

Murmuring ever the tones sublime,— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 


240 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Perhaps in that olden time grew trees 
Over thy banks, and summer’s breeze, 

Told to the leaves love’s mysteries; 

And wild birds caroled their matin lay, 

Or sang their vespers at close of day, 

And loved by thy flowing wave to stay— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 

Here, weeping willows their tentrils beat, 

And larch and locust their presence lent, 

And stately elms their branches blent— 

Here, finding shelter in greenwood shade, 

The wild rose grew, to bloom and fade, 

And the hawthorne tree sweet fragrance made— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 

Then the red man came from his eastern home, 
By the lake’s cold shore and the ocean’s foam, 

In these western fields awhile to roam,— 

He plied thy stream in his birch canoe, 

And hither he came his bride to woo, 

In language thy waters heard and knew— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 

Last, white man came, but the trees are dead, 
The deer and the singing birds have fled, 

And the Indian hides his cowardly head; 

Only, scattered over the grassy plain, 

The mounds of a busy burg remain, 

Where the prairie dogs and owls complain— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 

The white man stays, and builds his town, 

And now up hill, and o’er prairie brown. 

His roads wind up and his roads wind down, 
And wagons laden with precious stores, 

Or freighted with gold and silver ores, 

Are drawn in peace by his open doors,— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 


POETS AND POETRY 


241 


And still thy waters glide along, 

Singing their ceaseless olden song, 

For maidhood fair and manhood strong; 

And busy hands to their tasks repair, 

That shall make thy banks to bloom more fair, 
And build here homes like our old homes were,— 
Beautiful Rapid River! 


FRANK M. WENTWORTH 
Frank M. Wentworth has translated for us 
from Heine, “You Pretty Fisher Maiden;” from 
Eichendorff, “The Echo,” and from Goethe, the 
“Mignon.” He has also given to us from his orig¬ 
inal compositions, the following poem: 

OUR PRAIRIE FLOWERS 
When he this world had fashioned well 
To be his children’s home, 

The Father came with us to dwell, 

And in the floweret shone. 

His spirit sought the farthest shore, 

And left some token there 
That might to us in buds it bore 
Unfold a Father’s care. 

He gave arbutus to the grove, 

The clover to the mead; 

Where’er our wandering feet may rove 
There blooms our nature’s need. 

To cheer the desert’s lonely way 
The bright acacia grows. 

The lowly mosses’ crimson ray 
Lights up the Alpine snows. 

But when he viewed our prairie land 
No single flower could choose, 

And so he strewed with loving hand 
His choicest seeds profuse. 



242 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


DR. GAY WHITE 

Another poet who has now protruded himself 
far enough above the literary horizon to be recog¬ 
nized is Dr. Gay C. White, superintendent of the 
Mitchell district of the Methodist Episcopal church. 
He is a complete master of lyric poetry. While :n 
college he specialized on verse. Both his rhymes and 
his blank verse are faultless. Some of his longer 
poems take rank with the very best of our national 
literature. Two of his short ones are herein given: 

AN AUTUMN DAY 

Beneath a low enslated dome 
Stained through with fleeting opal tints 
The woods are dyed autumnal brown. 

The wind-loosed leaves, like wounded birds, 

Glide swiftly to their resting place, 

Soft bed of grass and broken twigs. 

From yonder tree’s gaunt, naked arm 
A solitary crow proclaims 
His melancholy warning cry, 

Lone herald voice of coming storm. 

The dwarf-like underbush of oak 

Supplies from Nature’s luxury 

* 

And wealth a flaming carmen robe, 

While sumac splashes drops of blood 
Against the hillside’s brown and gold. 

A PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR 
That Christ the Holy One, may find in you 
And me no idle strife or self parade, 

But strength for rugged toil and service true; 

The loveliness of flowers that do not fade, 

A song-thrilled spirit when the year is new,— 

And when the year is done, a spirit unafraid. 



POETS AND POETRY 


243 


Each day is young: and strong 1 ; let us be brave 
To match the stormy vigor of the day; 

Create in thought and speech the words that save 
Discouraged souls from bitter shame; at play, 

Or work, be like the Christ, who ever gave 

Himself; nor fail to think of others when we pray. 

Life’s river widens, journeying toward the sea. 

The stars illuminate the streets of gold; 

The dawn blends color with eternity, 

And thus a sad and weary world, grown old. 
Defies the challenge of mortality,— 

Gains everlasting peace within the Master’s fold. 


One of the early writers who gained wide 
recognition throughout Dakota Territory, as a poet 
and newspaper correspondent, was Mrs. Linda W. 
Slaughter. Old newspapers retained by many 
pioneers contain a number of her scattered poems. 

Major Harry McNamara, one of the early 
writers who was identified with the Yankton Herald, 
also became recognized as a poet 

Another valuable, early-day volume of poems 
that has disappeared is one by Dean Franklin R. 
Carpenter, of the School of Mines, entitled “Quest 
of St. Brendan.” 

A small pamphlet of poems was issued by its 
author, Mrs. Evelyn Grace-McKeel, in 191G, called 
“Gems of Fancy.” The best poem in it is one en¬ 
titled “The Prairie at Sunset.” 

Although there are in the following volumes 
of verse which have lain in the state historical de¬ 
partment for many years a number of good selec- 



244 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


tions, yet none of them could be incorporated into 
this book at this time: 

Mary Cummins, “Rhymes of a Lifetime.” 
James Davies, “Threads of Gold Woven in 

Vgfsg ^ ^ 

John E. Kelly, “The Age of Gold.” 

In 1906, a Reverend Mr. Smith, of Huron, 
brought out a volume of verse, but it was not widely 
read, because the poems lacked vitality. 

Access to quite a number of other volumes of 
pioneer poetry may be had at the Department of 
History, in the State Capitol, at Pierre. 

Newer volumes of poetry by a South Dakota 
author, all of them charming and delightful, are: 
“Echoes From Dreamland,” “Heaven on Earth,” 
and “Additional Poems,”—by F. 0. Stine. 


PIONEER SONGS 

It has been deemed wise to preserve in book 
form some of the best-loved pioneer Dakota songs, 
before they perish from the earth. 

THE LITTLE OLD SOD SHANTY 

(Concerning the author of the “Little Old Sod Shanty on My Claim,” 
we are indebted to Col. C. A. B. Fox, of Sioux Falls, for the following 
bit of interesting information: He says it was written by a Civil War 
veteran, Harry Kline, an old bachelor who came to Dakota in the late 
70’s and settled on a claim in Logan township in what is now Sanborn 
county, South Dakota.) 

I am looking rather seedy now while holding down my claim, 
And my victuals are not always served the best; 

And the mice play shyly round me as I nestle down to rest 
In my little old sod shanty on the claim. 

CHORUS 

The hinges are of leather and the windows have no glass, 
While the roof it lets the howling blizzard in, 

And I hear the hungry coyote as he slinks up through the 
grass 

Round the little old sod shanty on my claim. 



POETS AND POETRY 


245 


Yet, I rather like the novelty of living in this way. 

Though my bill of fare is always rather tame, 

But Pm happy as a clam on my land from Uncle Sam 
In the little old sod shanty on my claim. 

CHORUS 

But when I left my eastern home, a bachelor so gay, 

To try to win my way to wealth and fame, 

I little thought Pd come down to burning twisted hay 
In the little old sod shanty on my claim. 

CHORUS 

My clothes are plastered o’er with dough, I’m looking like a 
fright. 

And everything is scattered round my room. 

But I wouldn’t give the freedom that I have out in the West 
For the table of the Eastern man’s old home. 

CHORUS 

Still, I wish that some kind-hearted girl would pity on me 
take 

And relieve me from the dreadful mess I’m in; 

The angel, how I’d bless her, if this her home she’d make 
In the little old sod shanty on my claim. 

CHORUS 

And we would make our fortunes on the prairies of the West, 
Just as happy as two lovers we’d remain; 

We’d forget the trials and troubles we endured at the first 
In the little old sod shanty on my claim. 

CHORUS 

And if fate should bless us with now and then an heir 
To cheer our hearts with honest pride of fame, 

Oh, then we’d be contented for the toil that we had spent 
In the little old sod shanty on our claim. 

CHORUS 


246 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


When time enough had lapsed and all those little brats 
To noble man and womanhood had grown, 

It wouldn’t seem half so lonely as round us we should look 
And we’d see the old sod shanty on our claim. 

(For the song, “Little Old Sod Shanty In the West,” see Murray, 
under Musicians.) 


DAKOTA COMES 

(A political meeting was to be held at Olivet, in Hutchinson county 
in 1883 to discuss the question of statehood. A song written for the 
occasion by A. Sheridan Jones, territorial superintendent of public in¬ 
struction, entitled, “Dakota Comes,” finally became statewide property.) 

Who comes, who comes, from out of the West— 

Who knocks so bold at the Nation’s door? 

Who sallies forth as the people’s guest, 

And pulls so strong for the Union shore? 

Dakota comes, like a bounding hart, 

And cries: “Fear God, and take your own part!” 

Who comes, who comes, that her banners fly 
Complete and proud, from the plains afar; 

Who comes, with claim on the azure sky 
Of Freedom’s flag to pre-empt her star? 

Dakota comes: with resistless art, 

And cries, “Fear God, and take your own part!” 

« 

She comes with measures of corn untold; 

With herds that fatten upon her land; 

She comes with wealth in silver and gold, 

Relieving wants with a gen’rous hand; 

A prairie queen with a full, free heart, 

Comes fearing God, but will take her own part 


Awake, awake, oh ye sons of toil, 

Dakota calls for thy earnest aid 
Against political strife and spoil— 

Against high tramps “in the balance weighed;” 
She waiteth long, but with valiant heart, 

And cries: “Fear God, and take your own part!” 



POETS AND POETRY 


247 


Great sisterhood of a mighty land 
Fling now wide open the Union gate; 

Do equity to the proffered hand 

Extended you from the youthful state. 

Though demagagues her advancement thwart, 

Still fearing God, she will take her own part. 

A jeweled queen, just out of the West, 

Presents herself at the Nation’s door; 

She sallies forth as the people’s guest 
And labors hard at the Union oar. 

Dakota comes with a valiant heart, 

And cries: “Fear God, and take your own part!’ 


DAKOTA LAND 

Pve reached the land of drouth and heat, 
Where nothing grows for man to eat, 

For winds that blow with scorching heat, 
Dakota land is hard to beat. 

CHORUS 

Oh, Dakota Land, Sweet Dakota Land, 

As on thy burning soil I stand, 

I look away across the plains 
And wonder why it never rains, 

Till Gabriel calls with trumpet sound 
And says the rain has gone around. 

We have no wheat, we have no oats, 

We have no corn to feed our shoats, 

Our chickens are too poor to eat, 

Our pigs go squealing through the street. 

The farmer goes into his corn, 

And there he stands and looks forlorn; 

He turns around to cut a shock, 

To find the shoot has missed the stalk. 

Our horses are the blooded race, 

Starvation stares them in the face, 

We do not live, we only stay, 

We are too poor to get away. 


t 










I 


SECTION II 

ORATORS AND ORATORY 

Quite naturally, the orators of our state are not 
found wholly within one profession, nor did they 
come from any one line of endeavor. Rather,they 
are found in all walks of life. In other words, our 
orators have made their livelihoods in various fields 
of action, using their splendid oratorical talents only 
on special occasions. 

The Law gave to us Crawford, McFarland, 
Miser and Will B. Sterling. Education brought 
forth Harmon, Jones, Kemple, Parmley, and Perisho. 
Business added Branson, and the Military gave us 
Conklin, while the Church has added eloquent men 
galore. 

To read about an orator is always gratifying, 
but real inspiration—second only to hearing him— 
comes from studying his speeches, or at least 
copious extracts from them. Well may we profit by 
a brief study of the oratory that is available from 
the gifted men of our state! 

For a larger display of South Dakota oratory, 
one should secure a copy of “Winning Orations,” 
(Educator Co., Mitchell, S. D.) 



0. L. Branson 

Biographical —Born, Whiteside county, Ill., Feb. 1861. 
Removed to Iowa with parents in 1867. Spent youth on 
farm. Taught school, Carroll county, la., at age of fifteen. 
Elected principal of schools, Arcadia, la., at eighteen. 
Cashier Rawlin County Bank Atwood Kan. 1885-87. Or¬ 
ganized bank of his own at Atwood in 1887. Admitted to 
Kansas bar. Sold out in four years and moved to Olympia, 
Wash. Three years later removed to Osmond, Neb. Engaged 
in banking and the practice of law. Sold both interests. 
Came to Mitchell South Dakota, Dec. 31, 1896. Took charge 
of First National Bank at Mitchell. Bought the controlling 
interest of institution at the end of the year. Became its 
president. Sold out in February, 1915. Operating farm 
loan and investment company. Later organized and became 
president of “0. L. Branson & Co., Bankers,” Mitchell, S. D. 



0. L. BRANSON 


Among the universal orators of our state—that 
is, those whose oratory has inspired, and been in¬ 
spired by, a great variety of occasions—none have 
held higher rank than O. L. Branson, of Mitchell. 
Tall, erect, graceful; educated first for a teacher and 
then for a lawyer; studying and practicing mean¬ 
while for a public speaker, he has, through his own 
efforts, become one of the foremost orators of the 
west. 

Branson’s orations and his forceful delivery of 
them are both of that finished character that com¬ 
mands universal respect and brings an audience to 
its feet. A fair example of his inspiring eloquence 
will be found in the following extracts taken from 
his address delivered to the graduating class at 
Volga, this state, in May, 1905. 

I always feel an inspiration on an occasion of this kind 
that I never experience upon any other; for while it brings 
its sorrow in a measure, because from this time forward 
those who are graduating here are expected to fight the battle 
of life for themselves, yet I never stand in the presence of 
the youth of our land but what I feel as though the joyous 
hour of spring is here— 

“Mighty nature bounds as from her birth, 

“The sun is in the heavens and life on the earth; 

“Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 

“Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.” 



252 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Hail! beautiful morning; time, when to these young men 
and women all nature seems to be in harmony. The golden 
sunlight of morning is resting upon the horizon and shedding 
its brilliant rays over their young lives; fresh buds are 
bursting, song birds are singing, the whole Universe is 
joining in that glad hallelujah chorus—singing to the angels 
beyond the stars; and what message shall I bring to them 
that will help to guide them in the great journey they are 
soon to begin? 

:(! * ♦ 

Then too, whatever you do, do well. Don’t be a weakling; 
don’t be a frittering frailty; but in everything you undertake, 
be master of the situation. See the greatest of the Roman 
senators quietly walking down the aisle of the Roman senate, 
never dreaming of danger; see those twenty-three blades of 
steel pierce his flesh, and as the blood flowed from twenty- 
three wounds his soul went to make its peace with the Great 
Judge in Heaven. The angry mob that gathered about his 
prostrate form demanded justice and swore vengeance upon 
Brutus, but quietly and calmly Mark Antony stood over the 
dead body of Julius Caesar, master of the situation. 

Hear the thunder of cannon and the ratle of musketry 
upon the field of battle; see the charge and countercharge at 
the point of the bayonet, and finally see the Union forces in 
disorderly retreat. But, listen! away in the distance I hear 
the clattering of hoofs, and finally I see a black charger all- 
covered with foam hurrying to the scene of action, and Phil 
Sheridan rides up the Shenandoah, master of the situation. 

Take your lesson from the “thunderbolt of war.” More 
than a hundred times he led the armies of France to victory. 
He lowered the colors of the enemy at Austerlitz, and stood 
triumphant in the face of shot and shell at Lodi Bridge. He 
led his conquering heroes to the summit of the Alps and 
carried the Eagles of France to victory beyond the clouds. 
But, in an unguarded moment, 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


253 


“There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium’s capital had gathered there 
Her beauty and her chivalry,” 
and while the red wine flowed and the merry dance went on, 
the Duke of Wellington was marshalling the forces that 
carried the day at Waterloo; and the pendulum of time 
ceased to swing for Napolean on the rock-bound coast of St. 
Helena. 

THE CLOSING PART OF HIS FOURTH OF JULY 
ADDRESS AT SCOTLAND , S. D., 1915 

But we have cause to rejoice today greater than any that 
has come to us since that great day when the heavens rang 
with those sweet chimes of ’76. We rejoice because peace 
dwells in our midst. Today, our great flag is speaking as it 
has never spoken before, to a hundred million people, and 
is carrying its own appeal to the nations of the world. 
Everywhere today our country is ablaze with the glory of 
the American flag. From every city and every hamlet its 
bright stars are twinkling through her jeweled diadem and 
its great beams, entwined with a garland made from a 
hundred million loving hearts, are waving our message of 
sympathy to the distressed across the sea. We plead for 
peace—not because we are a nation that is lacking in courage; 
for, Sir, numbered among our gallant hosts are ten million 
patriotic men with red blood running through their veins— 
young, gallant, courageous energetic men—men who have 
the courage to bare their breasts to any foe. But why should 
we send them forth in the full glory of their young manhood 
only to bring them home again as cripples halt, and lame, 
and weak, and blind, and their garments dripping with the 
blood of their fellowmen? 0 America! My America! 
Beautiful queen of the empires of the world! Clad in your 
royal robes of purity and peace and love and hope and 
happiness, lead on: on through the dark chasms of cruel war, 
and with the wails of heart-sick mothers ringing in your ears, 
lead the way to that great court that will insure universal 


254 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


peace, and then—then shall the people of the world come 
forth with their hallelujahs to greet your coming, and “The 
nations will rise up and call you blessed.” 


MEMORIAL DAY, WHITE LAKE, (Closing). 

I must remind you today that time is fleeting. Long 
ago we were told that the River of Time is a wonderful 
stream as it runs through the realm of years. It is ever 
flowing on and on. Today we hear the faint rippling of its 
waters. On the other side, I hear the reveille waking up the 
blue battalions that have gone to show us the way. Yes; there 
I see the great leaders of our country, many of whom are 
sleeping in Arlington, and the tens of thousands of boys who 
marched in the ranks and whose graves are wearing garlands 
of flowers today, all marching in review before the untold 
millions who have gone before. Horses bridled and bitted; 
flags flying; bands playing, and at the head of the procession 
upon a scroll I see the name that brings a picture of a 
shackled race set free, brought from out the ban of bondage 
to the joys of liberty. 

“And Abraham Lincoln Leads the Way.” 

On this side of the River I see all who are left of the 

boys in blue, journeying toward that wonderful stream. 
They have already passed by; their faces are turned toward 
the setting sun. In the distance I hear them faintly singing: 

“I am a pilgrim; I am a stranger. 

I can tarry, I can tarry but a night. 

Do not detain me for I am going 

Where the fountains are flowing ever bright.” 

Taps are sounding! Boys in Blue, farewell, farewell! 

My countrymen: They have consecrated to our keeping 



ORATORS AND ORATORY 


255 


the destinies of our country; and what will your answer be? 

At this hour, on this eventful day, for you I pledge, we will 
never desecrate this day! As the years come and the years 
go by, on each Memorial Day we will cover the graves of 
our soldier boys with beautiful flowers. We will remember 
the Relief Corps; we will fire our salute over the graves 
of the unknown dead; we will sing anthems for the dead and 
speak words of cheer to the living; we will protect the flag 
and wherever it waves we will know its colors are bright 
and spotless; we will remember the great men who lead our 
armies in battle; we will remember the boys who marched 
in the ranks: 

“And when the last great trumpet 

Shall sound the reveille, 

And all the blue battalions 

March up from land and sea; 

He shall awake to glory 

Who sleeps unknown to fame, 

And with Columbia’s bravest 

Will answer to his name.” 

FROM ELKS MEMORIAL, SIOUX FALLS, S. D. 

We meet today to linger for a while around the mem¬ 
ories of the departed. We draw back the curtain which sep¬ 
arates us from the mystifying beyond and look out through 
the mists of the gray dawn to those battlements where many 
were fighting in life’s greatest battles, who today are not 
here to answer roll-call. Their barque has drifted to the 
full sea; their anchor is down, and for them the tide will 
come in no more. All Elkdom bows today in solemn medita¬ 
tion. At this hour we pay our loving tribute to the memories 
of our departed brothers who in life gallantly bore the em¬ 
blem of our Order and who in death calmly, patiently, will¬ 
ingly, took up their journey to that land where “shepherds 
abide in the field.” 


256 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


I must remind you today that this life at best is fleeting. 
A good man dies; the church bells toll; the curtains are 
drawn for an hour in our places of business; the funeral 
procession passes by, and like the dropping of a pebble in 
the sea, his place is soon filled and the world moves on. 

* * * * * 

During the ordinary life of man, wonderful things have 
been accomplished: wonderful things by nature; wonderful 
things by man’s inventive genius; and I wonder if you have 
ever thought of the most wonderful thing in all the world. 

I well remember the first mountain I ever saw. It was 
Pikes Peak. I watched it tower high into the heavens, and 
I stood at its base and beheld its grandeur and its magni¬ 
tude, and I wanted to cry out in the joy of my heart, “This 
is the greatest thing in all the world;” but it is not. 

Yonder is a vessel putting out to sea. The good-byes 
are said; the captain is on the bridge; the stoker at his post. 
Proudly she ploughs the mighty deep until lost to view. 
Finally, she encounters a fog and is unable longer to mark 
her pathway. Another vessel is approaching; a collision 
occurs; the ship begins to shudder and tremble and is 
gradually sinking. All is excitement on board. Laughter 
is changed to cries of grief; prayers go up for relief; the 
great pumps are unequal to the task and the vessel is going 
down; but just at the last moment when all hope seems to 
have fled and nothing seems to await all on board but a 
watery grave, a shout of joy is heard—a rescue ship is 
approaching and all on board are saved. Wireless telegraphy 
has done its work. Wonderful! wonderful invention! but 
not the most wonderful thing in the world. 

Hear the booming of cannon and the rattle of musketry 
on yonder mountain peak. Hear the call of the bugle as it 
rings out on the morning air and rebounds to the valley 
beyond. See the hurrying and scurrying of men in action, 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


257 


climbing from crag to crag, from peak to peak; .and you 
ask me what it is. My answer is, “It is the mighty Napoleon 
leading his army and carrying the flag of his country to 

victory in that battle beyond the clouds.” Wonderful battle! 
but not the most wonderful thing in the world. 

On yonder hill-side, overlooking the beautiful city of 
Florence, is a building peculiar of construction—ancient 
weather-beaten, quaint and old; renowned today perhaps only 
for the history it brings to mind as the traveler passes by: 

“’For humanity sweeps onward; 

Where today the martyr stands, 

On the morrow crouches Judas 
With the silver in his hands. 

Far in front the cross stands ready 
And the crackling fagots burn, 

While the hooting mobs of yesterday 
In silent awe return 
To glean up the scattered ashes 
Into History’s golden urn.” 

It is the home of Galileo, the illustrious scientist. It is 
where for years he read the secrets of the midnight sky; 
where he solved the mysteries of the universe. It is where 
he invented the telescope; where he went on and on with 
his research; where he announced to the world that that 
great luminous pathway spanning the heavens is in reality 
the pathway of innumerable suns. It is where, while yet in 
the zenith of his career, he lost his vision, and in that condi¬ 
tion traveled the melancholy road to the ending. Upon the 
walls of that building is a marble bust of the most renowned 
scientist of his day, looking down from its pedestal as if to 
tell the traveler the events that long since transpired. 
Wonderful building! wonderful history! but not the most 
wonderful thing in the world. 


258 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Over yonder is the much talked of city of the Caesars;— 
Rome, the eternal city; the renowned city of the past, where 
rolls the Tiber and where history also has been made brilliant 
in years gone by. Shades of Marcus Aurelius, of Nero, of 
Cicero, of Titus—Rome the Great, where thundered the 
chariots of war and where the Gladiators trooped to death. 
There Mark Antony calmed the turbulent mob when Brutus’ 
dagger felled the mighty Caesar. Wonderful city! but not the 
most wonderful thing in the world. 

But what is the most wonderful thing in the world? 
Come with me and I will show you what it is. Come to that 
little cottage yonder where the curtains are drawn and where 
the lights are burning low. Tread softly; enter; and there, 
in its mother’s arms, is the new-born babe. Life! Life is the 
most wonderful thing in all the world! 



General S. J. Conklin 

Biographical —Born, Penn Yan, N. Y., May 5, 1829. At 
twelve years of age apprenticed to a shoemaker. At eighteen 
completed apprenticeship and entered business for himself. 
Finally learned to read. Read law nights. Admitted to N. Y. 
bar 1857. Active in politics. Helped to organize the Re¬ 
publican party in 1856. Joined Union army, 1862. Com¬ 
missioned a lieutenant. After war, internal revenue collector, 
Wisconsin, three years. Spent four years in re-construction 
work; headquarters, New Orleans. Began newspaper work, 
Wisconsin. Came Dakota, 1879. Established “Conklin’s 
Dakotian” at Watertown. Moved to Clark. Practiced law. 
Edited paper. Appointed Adjutant-General State (now 
National) Guards 1901. Died, Battle Mountain Sanitarium, 
Hot Springs, S. D., 1914. 






GEN. S .J. CONKLIN 


For scathing sarcasm and bittery irony, Gen¬ 
eral S. J. Conklin, newspaper man and attorney at 
law (deceased), had few equals. Although many of 
his able editorials are still available in the old files 
of his paper, yet the only trace of his speeches that 
could be found was the following which he uttered 
as a young attorney in court at Clark, South Dakota, 
in pioneer days: 

Nature in her bountiful munificence has provided us with 
a safeguard against the monsters which a violation of her 
laws has brought into existence: as the morning light in the 
east warns us of the coming day and the darkness at noon¬ 
tide of the approaching storm, so nature hangs out upon 
the face of man a record of the light or darkness that dwells 
within; with an indelible finger she traces upon the features 
of every living creature of our race the history of their 
virtues or their vices, whether the man is to be loved or ad¬ 
mired or detested; advertises to the world whether he loves 
peace or contention; whether he strews the highway of 
human life with flowers or with thorns; whether he lives to 
bless or curse his race. 

Look this man in the face and tell me whether he 
makes peace or trouble in this world of ours. Hatred, re¬ 
venge and all the evil passions which language can express 
hang out in boM relief from every feature and tell you why 
he chose darkness rather than light to commence this prose¬ 
cution ; why he crept to your home and roused you from 
your slumbers at mid-night to listen to his perjured deviltry. 
Go to the seven-hilled city of Rome, that summit of perfec¬ 
tion in art, and search until you shall find the most accom- 
published delineator upon canvas of the human face and 


262 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


human character that the art world can furnish; employ him 
to visit all the great commercial centers and cities of the 
known world, and require him to descend into all the slums 
and dens, and hells of vice and infamy and human degrada¬ 
tion, and to study faithfully the lines of character and de¬ 
bauchery and crime chiseled upon the human face; then have 
him search out the condemned felons in all the jails and pen¬ 
itentiaries of the civilized world and study with care every 
shade and shadow of the emotions and passions that crime 
traces with indelible characters upon the features of its vic¬ 
tims, from boyish innocence to hardened crime; then let the 
artist repair to his studio and there by years of patient 
toil have him paint one fiendish face, the character lines of 
which shall express all that is low and vile and licentious and 
dishonest and devilish that he has seen and studied ^nd then 
bring that picture here breathing from every outline all that 
is loathsome, inhuman, dishonorable and infamous, and hang 
it upon the wall yonder for us to gaze upon, and it would be 
a thing of beauty a paragon of loveliness compared with the 
face of this man. 






























Senator Coe I. Crawford 


Biographical —Born, Allamakee county, Iowa, January 
14, 1858. Spent boyhood on farm. Attended semi-graded 
school at Rossville two years. Also took private lessons 
under Dr. Simeon H. Drake. Taught school, Ohio, two years. 
Sold books two years. Graduated Law School, Iowa City, 
Iowa, 1882. Taught again for a short time. Junior member 
law firm, Independence, Iowa, one year. Came to Dakota in 
1884. Settled at Pierre. Practiced law. Elected states 
attorney Hughes county in 1886. Formed law partnership 
with Chas. E. DeLand. Elected territorial senate, 1888; state 
senate, in 1890. Elected Attorney General of the state in 
1892; served four years. Defeated for congress in 1896. 
Moved to Huron in 1897. Attorney for Northwestern Rail¬ 
road Company. Elected governor of South Dakota in 1906. 
Elected to U. S. Senate by the state legislature in January, 
1909. Private law practice, Huron, S. D., since 1916. 















SENATOR COE I. CRAWFORD 


It is refreshing, indeed, to study an orator with 
such a range of speech as the gifted Coe I. Craw¬ 
ford. Some orators fail in effect because their volu¬ 
bility exceeds their thought. Not so with Crawford! 
His speeches are all well balanced. 

His early efforts at oratory were begun while 
he was yet a law student at Iowa City; in fact, he 
was one of ten orators chosen, out of a class of 130, 
by the faculty of the law school, for commencement 
honors. Again, in his early law practice, just after 
coming to Dakota, he soon became noted for his 
power of speech. His natural inclination toward 
ward politics drew him early into numerous cam¬ 
paigns, and he was soon heralded as the ablest 
stump speaker in the state. 

Crawford might rightfully be styled a “born ora¬ 
tor/’ for he can rise to his feet without a moment’s 
warning and make a model extemporaneous speech 
on almost any subject. His oratory is always ex¬ 
hilarating and effective. Before leaving the U. S. 
Senate he filled engagements for the Eastern Em¬ 
pire Lyceum Bureau, and since then he has done lec¬ 
turing for two other bureaus. 

Among his wide range of speeches that have 
been stenographed from time to time, only a few 


266 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


extracts can be given in a work of this kind. Speak¬ 
ing on Attorney Wiliam B. Sterling (deceased), at 
Huron in the fall of 1897, he said: 

Four and thirty jears cover the brief space of time that 
our friend lived upon earth and the character he established, 
the impression he left, the noble words he uttered, the work 
he did, are encompassed by these years. Indeed, the first 
twenty of the thirty-four belong to that plastic period when 
the world guesses what the future of the boy will be, but 
is confined to prophecy and speculation. The cradle, in this 
case, contained a favored child. The genii kissed him in his 
slumbering there, and left their imprint upon his brow, and 
in his heart, and upon his brain. He had not wealth, except 
a sound mind in a sound body with a face and form as fair 
as Alcibiades, and a heart as true and noble as a Washington 

* * * s': * 

Upon God’s everlasting hills, somewhere, our friend still 
lives. He is not dead! We have his character enshrined in 
our hearts, and years and years hence, when South Dakota 
is old; when she shall have become one of the very pillars 
of the Republic, with archives laden with her own history, 
it will be said that among all her illustrious citizens—among 
all the great names cherished by her children—none shine 
brighter, none with more fading luster, than that of the 
brilliant young man who gave his years to her service in 
that day when she first assumed the dignity of a sovereign 
state. 

As the years go on he will become more and more a 
picturesque figure in the history of this state; and the time 
will come when his name will be as inseparably blended with 
that of South Dakota, as that of Henry with Virginia, or 
Prentiss with Mississippi. 

* * * * * 

The block of Parian marble, under the mallet and chisel 
of a Phidias, grew into all the grace and beauty of a divine 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


267 


Apollo; but under the eye and special direction of Genius, 
he (Sterling) took the warp and woof into his own hands, 
and wove them into a rare and beautiful character and 
rounded life. We love that Character. It still lives. It 
cannot die! 


Governor Crawford was not a candidate for re- 
election in 1908, but sought the United States senate 
instead. The legislature of 1909, guided by the sen¬ 
atorial primary held the previous June, which Gov¬ 
ernor Crawford had carried, elected him, by a 
unanimous vote, to the U. S- senate. He was in the 
office of his successor, Governor Robert S. Vessey, 
turning over to him the affairs of state, when a joint 
committee, appointed by the two houses of the legis¬ 
lature, in executive session, called upon him to notify 
him, officially, of his election and to escort him to 
the house of representatives’ hall to speak. He said 

Gentleman of the Senate and House of Representatives ; 

It is impossible for me to express in words the emotions 
of my heart at this time, when the formal record which you 
have just made is the final and culminating act which places 
in my hands a great trust and imposes upon me a great re¬ 
sponsibility, linked with the most distinguished honor which 
the State of South Dakota can bestow upon one of her 
citizens. 

For the fidelity with which you have executed the com¬ 
mand given by the people of the state under the law, and for 
the personal kindness you have shown to me, I am profoundly 
grateful. 

To you and through you to the constituencies you repre¬ 
sent in the great legislative department of the state, and to 
all the people of the state, who have thus reposed confidence 



268 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


in me, I wish, without reference to party, faction or creed, 
to express my appreciation of the signal honor thus con¬ 
ferred. 

For me this moment is not one of vain-glory nor boast¬ 
fulness, but mingled with the feeling of gratitude for the 
confidence and the honor which it signifies, is a feeling of 
humility and of deep concern lest I fail to meet the expecta¬ 
tions of my friends and the demands which the problems of 
the time present to members of the Senate of the United 
States. 

I am not unmindful of the difficulties I shall encounter, 
nor of the strength of character, the vast knowledge, the 
wide experience, the commanding power, and the vigor of 
intellect which will overshadow my limitations in the great 
body of which, if I live, I am to become a member. 

I shall not, I hope, look upon this position as the goal 
at which all effort ends; nor as a pinnacle from which it will 
be a privilege to fold one’s arms and look down upon his 
fellow mortals. I hope it may prove to be the entrance into 
a field for larger service and usefulness and that during the 
time it is my privilege to serve the state, the keenest pleasure 
I shall experience will be in the consciousness that I am 
accomplishing some good for the people whom I serve, and 
taking a humble part in the settlement of questions of mo¬ 
ment to mankind. 

I shall, no doubt, be misunderstood at times and mis¬ 
represented, perhaps, but I wish to assure you—whatever 
may be said or reported—that always the underlying pur¬ 
pose of my life will be to give the best there is in me to the 
public service. I shall make mistakes and there will be 
times, doubtless, when what seems to me the right course may 
appear to some of you to be the wrong one, but you will, [ 
am sure, be generous enough to believe that I was acting 
from sincere and honest motives and according to the light 
my conscience and judgment give to me. 

In the campaigns which have recently swept over the 
state the controversy was heated and some bitterness was 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


269 


engendered. I want it understood here and now, that out of 
the storm of conflict, I bring no malice. It shall be my pur¬ 
pose to work for all. None shall have cause to hesitate to 
apply at any and all times to me for such aid as this great 
office may enable me to render without considerations of 
partisanship or factionalism. The democrat who just now 
recorded his vote for the candidate of his party, and the re¬ 
publican who opposed me before and at the primary, are con¬ 
stituents and fellow citizens, entitled to my services as a 
public officer as fully as if they had been personal sup¬ 
porters, and in so far as I am capable of giving it, they shall 
have fair and just consideration. There is patriotism and 
good citizenship, there is principle, there is civic virtue in the 
people of all factions and parties, and when it comes to the 
obligations of official duty, those obligations extend to all 
without regard to politics, religion, or previous condition of 
servitude. 

I cannot leave you without thanking those loyal friends 
everywhere throughout the state, who have been so stead¬ 
fast through evil, as well as through good report. My hope 
today is that I may retain their confidence and merit their 
approval in the future. 

To serve one’s country; to be at all times true to one’s 
convictions of duty; to serve one’s fellows; to make the most 
of one’s opportunities; to develop the best of which one is 
capable; to assist in pushing forward the work of his day 
and generation; to cherish and uphold as the cornerstone of 
it all, the family the home and the highest ideals of the 
state—these are the things that should, and which I believe 
do count most in the equation of life. 

My services can be of aid to you only in so far as it is 
dominated by a desire to help the people by seeking the 
greatest good to the greatest number, and by striving always 
to protect and to defend the principle that all men are equal 
before the law—rich or poor—high or low—black or white— 
low-born or well-born; that there should be no special privi¬ 
lege in civil government; that all should be held to the same 


270 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


degree of accountablity before the law without fear or favor; 
because—in the language of the civil law—“Salus Populi 
Suprema Lex”—the public welfare is the highest law. 

Again pledging you fidelity to these principles, and 
thanking you, one and all, I bid you good bye ’till we meet 
again. 

In closing his great speech in the United States 
Senate, as to why Senator Lorimer should be un¬ 
seated in that body, he said: 

White says that when Browne paid him $850 “Lorimer 
money” at the Briggs House in Chicago on June 16, 1909, he 
“had a belt around his waist that was made of blue cloth and 
pinned on with safety pins”; that Browne told him that he 
carried money in that belt and that he had $30,000 on his 
person the day before (p. 81). Whose money was it it? What 
special interests were using money so lavishly as that among 
members of the Legislature of Illinois? And for what pur¬ 
pose? Was it to strangle legislation at Springfield and to 
send a representative to this body? People in these days 
indulge in all sorts of attacks upon Congress, and most of 
the attacks are both unfair and unfounded. Magazines 
crudely and wantonly assail the names of men in public life 
who are above reproach. This is all wrong. I have no 
sympathy with it. I believe that a very great majority of the 
men in official life today are faithful servants of the public. 
Character and reputation should not be wantonly assailed. 
A man who will attempt, out of malice, to destroy the good 
name of a fellowman is no better than a murderer. But 
whither are we drifting if conditions like these at Springfield 
are to be passed over in silence? We may make mistakes in 
framing tariff laws, Mr. President, but they can be amended. 
We may adopt wrong policies in the administration of public 
affairs, but they can be corrected. But, sir, what is the 
future representative government if men are to enjoy seats 
in the legislative department which have been purchased with 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


271 


paltry gold? What is to become of our institutions and who 
can answer for tomorrow if legislation in great States like 
Illinois is to be bought and sold by men who are provided 
with a corruption fund for that purpose—a United States 
Senatorship thrown into the bargain? Where is all this to 
end? Is all sense of honor benumbed and is conscience only 
a myth? Is the Senate of the United States with all its 
traditions, its proud sense of honor, its noble dignity, and its 
lofty standards, to forget the warnings uttered time and 
again in this historic Chamber? Are the voices of the past, 
which in this place have so often stirred the hearts of men 
and the supreme faith which inspired the fathers who 
wrought here to be overwhelmed by a corrupt and sordid 
tendency which would sacrifice every public trust upon the 
altar of commercialism and make a thing of merchandise 
of every public duty? Are the Members of this Senate will¬ 
ing that testimony like this, which I have attempted to 
review here, shall be put aside as insufficient to overthrow 
a formal certificate of election simply because that certificate 
comes here under the seal of a great State? 



Prof. T. A. Harmon 

Biographical —Born, Plymouth, Michigan, May 27, 1871. 
Graduated from Plymouth high school 1889; from Normal 
College 1896; took his A. B. degree at the University of 
Michigan 1909. Superintendent of schools, Cosnovia, Miich., 
three years; Watervliet, Michigan, five years; Hart, Michi¬ 
gan, two years; Yankton, South Dakota seven years. Water- 
town, South Dakota, 1918 to date (1922). Married Miss 
Flora Radcliffe, 1900. Father of two children—-a boy and a 
girl. 



PROFESSOR T. A. HARMON 


In addition to being an artistic word painter, 
Professor Harmon gives to his orations an historical 
setting that bespeaks the mind of the finished 
scholar. He has a style that is plainly individualistic. 
Then, again, having studied elocution and oratory 
while in college, his delivery is forceful and inspir¬ 
ing. He has excelled, not only as a popular lecturer, 
but as one of the leading commencement orators of 
the state. 

His first regular series of Chautauqua lectures 
was delivered in Kentucky, Arkansas, and Missouri, 
in 1914, under the auspices of the American Bureau, 
of St. Louis. From the opening date his lectures 
proved popular—so much so that a large number 
of towns along his route promptly asked for a return 
date. In 1915, he lectured for the Britt Lyceum 
Bureau of Lincoln, Nebraska; and one summer was 
spent on eastern platforms for the Redpath-Harri- 
son bureau. 

Harmon is the orator eloquent as well as argu¬ 
mentative. A study of the following extracts from 
a few of his addresses will reveal the beauty and 
vigor of his style: 

From “THE SIGN ON THE OPEN ROAD.” 

There are other scenes we might have visited; other 
problems we might have studied; other lessons we might 
have found; this is the last. It is midnight. A distant clock 
slowly tolls away the hours, and crowing cocks announce the 
approach of a new day. High above and far away rides the 
moon like an serial ship upon the fleecy-like clouds of the 
sky; the stars, thousands upon thousands, twinkle and 
sparkle and glitter. They represent aeons of other lives and 


274 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


other worlds. And now, as we turn to view our last scene 
together, we behold first a low iron fence, and then, beyond 
it, clusters of dark pines, tall rising spires, small gray stones, 
and an occasional tufted mound. It is the resting place of 
the dead. How quiet it lies in the softened light of the night. 
Back somewhere among the pines the harsh strange call of 
a bird is heard; and all else is silent save the mournful cry of 
a loon that floats from the distant woods like the wail of a 
lost soul. To our right the Open Road extends for a little 
distance, like a silver cord, and then is lost to us forever. 
It goes on and oh and on—on into eternity. But to you and 
to me, the Open Road ends here. 

* * * ❖ 

From “THE PIPER OF DREAMS.” 

This profusion of principles is shown in the great master 
minds of art, literature and music. It is seen in the compo¬ 
sitions of Richard Strauss. His incomparable symphony ex¬ 
presses the development of the human race from its origin 
through its various phases—religious, scientific, philosoph¬ 
ical, psychological — and its atmospheres of romanticism, 
idealism and realism, from barbarian mythology to the 
Superman of Nietzsche. 

The symphony begins like Angelo’s Last Judgment; it 
ends in the spirit of Dionysius, Nietzche’s idea of despair, 
defeat, conquest and tragedy. For Strauss, there was no 
God; yet he filled his music with the spirit of the Divine. 
He intended his inspiration as an homage to the genius of 
Frederick Nietzsche, the Jew. In Zarathustra, Nietzsche 
writes: “God is dead.” The works of Bernard Shaw, too, 
thrill us with the Nietzschean dream of the Superman. The 
sculpture of Max Klinger breathes its spirit. The over-soul 
of Emerson is a repetition of the soul of Zarathustra. Wagner 
is another illustration of this conflict of human ideals. This 
artist felt the ceremonial atmosphere of the Roman Catholic 
Church; yet he sang the philosophy of Buddhism. He worked 
out the fatalistic philosophy of Schopenhauer. 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


275 


Like the voice of the night wind, rich with sentiment, 
aspiration, achievement, and rich with resistance, defeat and 
tragedy; so is the tone of the spirit of today. It is a complex 
of the like and the unlike, the Christ and the anti-Christ, the 
beautifully barbaric imaginative and the lonely barren. The 
sermon on the Mount mingles with the insane ravings of a 
Nietzsche; the spirit of Apollo quickens to the bacchanalian 
dance of a Dionysius; the golden age of one ideal feels the 
iron heel of the next. Materialism, idealism, monism, plural¬ 
ism, empiricism, romanticism, naturalism combine to form the 
enlightenment of the moment. 


“THE UNITED STATES—A WORLD POWER” 

The last thought dealing with the ideals of philanthro- 
phy, is concerned with that stupendous process which is now 
creating the United States of today and of tomorrow. For 
the development of the American people has been always an 
evolution of the intellectual, social, and moral forces of the 
leading nations of Europe. Historically we have never been 
isolated. Founded by Europeans, and always tempered by 
European immigration, America has extended her national 
conceptions by and through the modifications of the philoso¬ 
phy, tradition and purpose of the European powers of the 
world. America’s policy has been based on expediency and 
participation; her influence hg.s been expressed along the 
lines of the commercial and the political; and her coherence 
has been realized in the continued movement of emigration, 
in the tremendous expansion of international trade, and in 
the virile assimilation of literature, art and institution. 

America can be conceived as a tremendous, grinding, 
titanic mill. The process of which is democracy; the seed in 
its gigantic hopper is the intelligence, the responsibility, the 
co-operation of each individual alive to the demand of civic 
affairs; and the finished product is liberty, justice, and the 
eternal tenderness of human sympathy, loyalty and human 
love. 



276 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


America, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, is 
a tremendous process indeed which offers the possibilities of 
idealistic Democracy to the nations of the world. Until inter¬ 
rupted by the present war, America was receiving more than 
one million emigrants each year. . They came to us through 
the inducement of economic opportunity and national 

standard. The majority have proved themselves worthy ad¬ 
ditions to the citizenship of this country. Representing the 
civilizations of many nations, they have modified, in the 
process of assimilation, the parent body of Democracy. It is 
therefore necessary for the future welfare of this country, 
that we filter by civic standard the emigrant of tomorrow. 
The assimilation into the ideals of Democracy of 1,000,000 
people annually is a tremendous national undertaking. In 
the future we must be particular on both the quantity and 
quality of the emigrant. The emigrant that has democratic 
possibilities should be welcomed; the refuse from the national 
garbage cans of Europe and Asia resulting from the political 
convulsions of Anarchy, the ptomaine poisonings of moral¬ 
ity, the intense dyspepsia of Christianity, and the acute in¬ 
digestion of economic inefficiency, should never be permitted 
to become a part of this nation. 

Intelligent and loyal manhood after all is the true test of 
a nation’s greatness. This manhood begins and ends with re¬ 
ligion. It includes morality with its delicate sense of justice 
and character, and its wealth of human love and human sym¬ 
pathy. It means an adequate preparation for the assurance 
of the material needs of life; it also means growth for the ap¬ 
preciation of the refinements of life. In this sense the schools 
of today must teach three things: First, a preparation for 
service, for usefulness, for practical concerns; second, a 
preparation for the enjoyment of the good, the true and the 
beautiful, religion, morality and art, the ideals of culture; 
and third, the preparation for a national consciousness and 
responsibility, the civic duties of Democracy. Ladies and 
gentlemen: The most vital possession of any state is found 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


277 


in the ideals of its citizens; and the most valuable phase 
of national life is the form and aim of its education. 

America may be conceived in fancy, may be imaged in 
thought, as a great Titanic world process, as an evolution of 
time, as the tremendous loom of a national soul, threading 
into a cloth of gold, the Divine purpose of an Infinite God. 
For it is now weaving into a national design of Democracy 
eternal the laborer of the field, the toiler of the shop, the 
owner of capital, the mind of science, the genius of art, the 
refinement of life, the beauty of living, the idea of neighbor, 
the meaning of philanthrophy the idealism of peace, the 
philosophy of the Open Door, and the fraternalism, and the 
respect of the world. This is the growing Democracy of 
America—a great future world power among the nations of 
the earth; America, a chosen people of her God. 


From “JOAN OF ARC.” 

Great events in history come from causes numerous, 
interrelated and complex. However distinct, individualistic, 
or independent wonderful happenings may seem to the casual 
student, they are found upon close observation to spring 
from many sources. These sources or causes are political, 
moral, social, religious and industrial. 

The philosophy of history, in its interpretation, points to 
scientific speculation, to original systems of reasoning, to the 
explanatory principles of nature, to scholastic theological 
conceptions, to improved methods underlying industrial 
development, to the vital forces of political ambition, to the 
influence of the mob, to the spirit of the times, to the soul of 
the genius. It also points to the infinite—that mystical ele¬ 
ment which escapes analysis. For as Goethe once remarked: 
“Existence divided by human reason leaves always a re¬ 
mainder.” There is no exact way to measure the infinite. 

In dealing with this subject humanity is ever groping 
for cause, for limit and for season. The problem always 




278 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


baffles solution; the answer is never to be had. But, not¬ 
withstanding the uncertainties of this profound force, man’s 
curiosity is forever prompting him to study its manifesta¬ 
tions and its results. So it is that the thought we would 
pursue here, points to this unknowable factor in the lives of 
men. For, after making allowance for the expression of the 
social spirit, for the personality of a race, for the peculiar 
temperament of a people, for artistic economic or religious 
environment there yet remains one great agent in the con¬ 
cerns of mankind. It is the hand of fate, the act of provi¬ 
dence, the mind of God. 

* * * 

Clothed in white, the emblem of purity, the token of 
sainthood, Joan of Arc now stood alone. Did I say that she 
was alone? No; no! She was not alone. For now a heavenly 
vision came to the little peasant girl of old Donremy. True 
to the last, St. Catherine, St. Margaret and St. Michael ap¬ 
peared to her in this fearful ordeal of death. It was then 
that she understood the meaning of their prediction: “Do not 
lament your martyrdom; through it you will come to the 
kingdom of paradise.” 

It was at this time that Father Cauchon shouted: “Joan! 
I am come for the last time to exhort you to repent and seek 
the pardon of God!” Her reply was: “I die through you.” 
These were the last words she spoke to any person on this 
earth; for, at that moment, a pile of black smoke shot through 
with red flashes of flame, rolled up in a thick volume, and 
hid her from view. Her voice sweet in prayer, was yet to 
be heard from the depth of this darkness. Then for one brief 
moment, the wind drew r the smoke like a curtain from the 
girl, and showed for the last time, the wonderful pleading 
eyes, the saint-like face turned toward the cross, loyal to her 
God to the last; and they saw the moving lips whisper again 
and again, the One Great Word in all the world—“Jesus.” 

The end was sudden. For a great volume of fire and 
flame burst upward, and enveloped the girl in a roar of 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


279 


seething rage and fury. Bones and blood and flesh and soul 

disappeared: Joan of Arc had gone to her long reward. 

* * * * * 

Morality will ever weep for the deeds of the Maid of 

Donremy; Reverence will always number her beads; Liberty 
will honor her memory; Religion will crown her a martyred 
saint; and Mankind will cherish her—a model of piety, patri¬ 
otism and human love. 

* * * * * 

This simple unlettered peasant girl of the fifteenth 
century, listening to the voices of her angels, gave her all to 
her country, her king and her God. Knowing that defeat was 
to be her fate, she marched on; knowing that disgrace, suffer¬ 
ing, calumny were in store for her, she marched on; knowing 
that death—the cruel death of fire—was ahead, she marched 
on; actuated by the love of her native land and her God, she 
marched on—marched on to defeat, to disgrace and to death. 

We may not fully appreciate this little martyred girl of 
old France. To the student of the unknowable factor in 
human affairs, the vision of Joan, holding in death the torch 
of national liberty and the crucifix of God, represents the last 
word in human idealism. They who catch this vision and this 
meaning divine, see again a slender form of girlish beauty; 
behold once more the upturned face, the pleading eyes, the 
moving lips; and observe the cross of God held high above 
the flames. It is in such a vision of Divine purpose that the 
student feels the full force of Christian faith and Christian 
love. It is in such a manifestation of the human and the 
infinite that he can sense the meaning of the Divine, under¬ 
stand the loyalty of the soul, and comprehend the union of 
the two. Such in purpose, meaning and result was the 
heroine of France, the servant of God, the master of men; 
the girl, known, written and recorded in the archives of her 
native land—Joan of Arc, the Lady of the Lily, the one 
great representative of the unmeasured factor in human 
affairs. 



Dr. Hilton Ira Jones 

Biographical —Born, Mankato, Minn., May 9, 1882. 

Educated public schools of Minnesota; A. B. degree, Parker 
College, Winnebago, Minn., 1903; A. M. degree, Drake Uni¬ 
versity, 1904; Warren Fund Scholar, Howard, 1906-’08; fel¬ 
low in Chemistry, University of Chicago, 1908-’09; Ph. D. 
degree, University of South Dakota, 1915. Teacher, Des 
Moines high school, 1904-’06; chemist for manufacturing 
pharmacists, Boston, 1907; Professor of Chemistry, Musko¬ 
gee high school, 1909-’12; Professor of Chemistry, Dakota 
Wesleyan University, 1912-U8; similar position, Oklahoma 
Agriculture and Mechanic Arts College, 1918-’22. At present 
director of Scientific Research, Redpath Lyceum Bureau, 
Chicago. Married Blanche Pinkerton, of Des Moines, June 
16, 1908. Father of four children—two boys and two girls. 










DR. HILTON IRA JONES 

One of the most outstanding platform men that 
South Dakota has developed to date is Dr. Hilton 
Ira Jones who was for six years head of the Science 
department of Dakota Wesleyan University. Dr. 
Jones has lectured from Maine to California. He is 
one of the ten recognized Scientists of America;— 
naturally, his addresses are mostly of a scientific 
character. 

Just now he is located in Chicago as Director 
of Scientific Research for the Redpath Lyceum 
and Chautauqua Bureaus of America. After lec¬ 
turing several seasons for these people, they called 
him to his present responsible position. 

On his lecture tours he carries with him a com¬ 
plete electrical equipment. This he uses merely as 
an accompaniment to his fascinating lectures which 
thrill his hearers everywhere. 

Brief extracts from three only of his popular 
lectures are given: “A Study in Vibrations/’ “The 
Fountains of Psyche,” and “The Transfiguration.” 

Extracts from “A STUDY IN VIBRATIONS ” 

Friends: There was a time when certain people who 
knew little science and less about religion used to talk about 
some sort of a war that was supposed to exist between 
science and religion. Of course there never was any such 
war; indeed could never be a war between the several parts 
of truth, for truth so far as I know is the only thing we have 
in this world which is all the time harmonious. 


282 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Aristotle one time divided our human knowledge into 
two sorts: he catalogued on one side all those forms of know¬ 
ledge that may be appreciated by means of our five physical 
senses. He called that all physics. Then he wrote down on 
the opposite side of his ledger those other forms of knowledge 
which are subjective in character, like music, mathematics, 
religion and so forth; and because they lay over against 
physics in this classification, Aristotle called that all meta¬ 
physics. 

It is my purpose tonight to help you to see, as best I may, 
how science in its search for the Ultimate Truth is breaking 
down the barriers and distinctions between these two realms 
of knowledge; is pointing out the road that leads to success 
and high character and is establishing the fact that truth is 
never warring, but is one and harmonious, always. 

We may dispute about it as we will, but the fact yet re¬ 
mains as Browning one time said that: 

“Truth lies within ourselves 
L, ..ixL.es no rise from outward things 
Whate’er you may believe. 

There is an inmost center 
In us all where truth abides 

In fullness. 

.and to know 

Rather consists in opening out 
Away, whereby this imprisoned splendor 
May escape, than in admitting entrance 
For some light supposed to be without.” 

* * * * % 

Three men stood one day at Niagara Falls,—a French¬ 
man, an Irishman and a Yankee. The Frenchman went into 
raptures, as Frenchmen always do at the Falls, and cried: 
“Oh! ze beautiful fall, ze magnificent spectacle.” But the 
Irishman looked and said: “Well, Begorra, how else could it 
get over?” While the Yankee mused and said: “Lord, what 
a place for a mill.” They all saw the same falls you say. 




ORATORS AND ORATORY 


283 


Possibly they did. But what they saw there was in every 
case conditioned by the mind that beheld it. 

* =!= * * * 

There is not the slightest magic about this. You can do 
these things just as well as I can. These are simply the laws 
of life in operation before you. Remember you have in your 
piano over 200 strings and yet it you will sing into your 
piano one clear pure tone only one set of those strings 
will sound, and that is the one that has just the same 
vibration rate as the tone you sing. The piano sings back 
r.t you exactly the same tone you sing at it. And I want to 
remind you that is the way the world always does with peo¬ 
ple. The world always gives you back just exactly what you 
give the world. Coiled within the cochlea of the human ear 
is a harp of more than ten thousand strings, and it is by 
means of this very principal of sympathetic vibration that 
you are able to distinguish one musical tone from another. 
Of course, I know there are some people whose ears are so 
out of tune that they cannot distinguish one musical tone 
from another, and the unfortunate thing about those folks 
is that you can’t get into their ears with a hammer as you 
can with a piano, to tune them up. And there are some 
people’s eyes, too, so out of tune that they can’t distinguish 
one color harmony from another. 

^ :{c 

If we can run machinery by means of one vibration why 
can we not also by means of another? If we can run ma¬ 
chinery and do physical work by means of heat, why can we 
not also run machinery and do physical work by means of 
sound? Both are vibrations, and if we can run machinery 
and do physical work by means of electricity which I call you 
to witness you yourself didn’t know how to use fifty years 
ago and a whole lot of you don’t know how to use yet, why 
can we not also run machinery by means of light? or even by 
means of thought itself? Oh! to be sure, we have no street 
cars run by thought as yet, but do you Christian people re¬ 
member that one day a Man from Nazareth said: “If you but 


284 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


had the faith you could say to yon mountain get thou hence 
and be thou removed into the midst of the sea and it should 
obey you?” And I want you to know that the modern scien¬ 
tist is just beginning to see that Jesus Christ was a premier 
scientist, that he knew what he was‘talking about and that 
he meant just exactly what he said. 

^ 

Friends, I recognize that much I have said tonight you 
will go away and forget,—naturally so,—but there are two 
or three things I should like to have you fix in your minds if 
possible and remember. I wish you to remember in the first 
place the importance to America of the work of Science. 
Then, too, remember throughout this whole gamut of physical 
vibrations by which this thing you and I call “the world” im¬ 
presses itself upon mankind, that through this physical 
“world” there runs one immutable and eternal Law. The 
Law that governs this world of ours is beyond any question 
ONE LAW. Then, too, I wish you to remember that the 
alchemist was right, and that the atoms that make up our 
universe are all composed of one and the same fundamental 
stuff—Matter. And do you know the more I study the more 
T am convinced that Lord Kelvin was right when he said: 
“There is in our world but one Force, though its manifesta¬ 
tions here in the world may be many.” One Force, one Mat¬ 
ter, one Universal Law. 

As the crusader in the olden time so the modern scientist 
has inscribed upon his banner “veritas est magna et 
prevelibit.” Truth is mighty and it shall prevail; and though 
in seeking truth the modern scientist may have wandered 
far, I call you to bear witness that the Scientist has sought 
his truth and all the while without either creed or dogma or 
even preconceived predjudice. And in seeking Truth thus, 
for its own sake, the modern scientist has at last found God 
“Standing there within the shadow, keeping watch above his 
own.” Oh, no anthropomorphic, clan God, certainly but— 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


285 


“One great eternal infinite! 

One great unbounded whole, 

Whose body is the universe 
Whose spirit is its soul.” 

Extracts from “THE FOUNTAINS OF PSYCHE ” 

In the early days in Minnesota my father used to address 
the Farmer’s Institutes of that state. He was one of the early 
advocates of the planting of tame grasses, and for that 
reason they called him “Hay Jones.” There went with father 
on the Institute work a man they called “Hog Lewis.” Lewis 
was a specialist in Poland China hogs—a man who had 
raised hogs for forty years and looked like one. Of course he 
did! That’s all he thought about. His dream, his ambition, 
his ideal was his hogs, and he became like the thought that 
was in him, as men everywhere, always do. Have you not 
seen two old people who have lived together past their 
Golden Wedding day who have actually come to look alike? 
They have been thinking alike so long. 

Did you notice a report I published on “Some Analyses 
of the Fears of a Woman?” We found a fine sample in Mrs. 
Owens. I mean she was fine for our purpose. She was a 
woman who wept under all conditions. She wept when she 
was angry and she wept when she was glad. So I gathered 
some of the tears she wept in anger and some she wept in 
joy and analyzed them both for sodium chloride—common 
table salt; and I found the tears she wept in anger con¬ 
tained nearly seven times as much salt as the tears she wept 
in joy. You have heard about “briny tears?” It seems to 
be true. The constitution of the tears is changed by the pas¬ 
sions of the mind, as is every other gland and tissue in the 
human body. 

It is passing strange to me that intelligent people are 
willing to live all their lives within a machine, we call our 
bodies, and never give one serious hour of attention to the 
manipulation or care of that machine. And because of that 
national neglect, we are a nation of people worshiping at the 



286 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


shrine of disease. The nation can never rise much higher 
than the standard of the individual citizen. And that is par¬ 
ticularly true with a government like ours, where thank God, 
it is the thinking of the people and nothing else that consti¬ 
tutes the ultimate law of the land. Experience convinces 
me there are thousands of people here enjoying poor health. 
That’s what I mean—getting a lot of fun out of being sick. 
Don’t know enough about themselves to know it is a dis¬ 
grace to be sick. If you are sick it is a sign you have broken 
some natural law—you or your ancestors. It’s not a thing to 
be proud of in any case. Until you realize in your own life 
the great scientific facts I have presented, you have neither 
begun to succeed nor to live. 

Won’t you go resolved to try it out for ten days— 
seriously—thoughtfully, even prayerfully—for just ten days? 
And if you do not find by the end of that time that strength 
is coming where weakness has been, that health is coming 
where sickness has been, that success, financial and other¬ 
wise, is coming where failure has been—then you are the first 
person to ever seriously try it and fail. If you fail, the ac¬ 
cumulated scientific results of a hundred years are wrong. 
If you fail, the schools of salesmanship of the earth are all 
wrong. If you fail——you cannot fail! You don’t have to 
believe any man made “ism” to make it work either. You 
cannot fail because the means of success are within you; be¬ 
cause God’s laws are immutable; because 
“God’s in His Heaven 
And all’s well with the world.” 

* * * :'s« # 

Extracts from “THE TRANSFIGURATION” 

When Christ went up the mountains he left nothing in 
the valley. Not a thing was left behind. And though his 
disciples could scarcely look on Him, it was the same beloved 
countenance which was “changed.” It was that seamless 
robe; that plain, everyday garment, which “became white 
and glistening.” And so in the transfigurations of human 
life it is the same animal passions, though transmuted to 



ORATORS AND ORATORY 


287 


divine functions; the same physical powers hallowed to holy 
ends. 

Who, unacquainted with the facts, could believe that the 
black, unattractive lump of charcoal could, without change 
of elements, be metamorphosed into the lustrous diamond? 
Yet it is wrought by that Magic Alchemy of Nature—by that 
mystic movement of a fine Force. 

One day Christ girded himself with a towel, stooped 
down and washed his disciples’ feet. And the deed was done 
so graciously that the humble service became a sacrament, 
which emperors, kings and potentates thought it an honor 
to observe. The shameful Cross became the throne of The 
Prince of Sufferers, and ever since that day his followers 
have deemed it an honor to be permitted to share their 
Master’s death. 

5^5 5}C % 

Like the fire in the opal’s heart, there burns in man an 
inner Spirit which shapes his realities. Gold, and silver and 
marble palaces are all but fleeting show,—“It is the Spirit 
which maketh a life.” 

>)s He if! ❖ 

Yonder clouds are now but lined with silver. Another 
hour will reveal them scarlet and crimson and gold—moun¬ 
tains of heavenly glory, banked up against the morning sun. 




R. L. Kemple 

Biographical —Born, Preston, Minn., Aug. 16, 1873. 

Farmer’s son. Graduated from Country schools, Preston 
high school, State Normal at Winona, and took special work 
at Highland Park college. Eleven years in educational work. 
City superintendent at Jasper, Arlington and Wheaton, 
Minn., and at Madison and Watertown, S. D. President 
Graded School Section, Minnesota. Educational Association, 
Organized School Board Section, S. D. Educational Associa¬ 
tion. Lecturer, past twelve years, Brown Lyceum Bureau, 
and with the Travers-Newton Chautauqua System. 



ROBERT L KEMPLE 


Another South Dakotan, who has gained recog¬ 
nition on the lecture platform is Prof. Robert L. 
Kemple, of Watertown. Since 1908, he has been 
identified with the Wright Entertainment Bureau, 
of St. Louis, Missouri. As a popular lecturer he has 
gained a national reputation. His subjects are: “The 
American Boy,” “A Young Man’s Possibilities,” 
“Fits and Misfits in Life,” and “The Other Side of 
the Door.” 

First of all, Kemple must be considered as a 
humorist. Although there is a backbone of high 
grade philosophy extending through all of his ad¬ 
dresses, yet his illustrations are perfect models of 
the most startling wit. Passing “from the sublime 
to the ridiculous,” he paints a picture of his own 
babes lying peacefully asleep in their trundle beds 
and then follows it a moment later with the city boy 
in the bath-tub; and thus he holds an audience spell¬ 
bound at will. No man in America has had more 
return engagements than he. This is the best evi¬ 
dence of his success. Comparatively penniless when 
he entered the lecture field, he has, through his own 
untiring efforts, amassed a comfortable fortune. 

By a comparison of his speeches with the others 
contained herein, it will at once be seen that his style 


290 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


is very original. Those brief extracts that have been 
gathered need no further comment. The happy mix¬ 
ture of wit and philosophy contained in them will 
appeal to all. 

You can all tell by my homely, homely, homely face that 
I was at one time a school teacher. I had at my last charge 
as superintendent of city schools, some 1100 boys and girls, 
and I know just a little of the hopes and possibilities of the 
boys and girls; aye, their peculiarities also. 

One day I entered my eighth grade room and found the 
teacher hearing a class in Civil Government. The topic under 
discussion was copyrights on books. The class had the work 
well in hand. I took charge of the class. “Boys and girls,” 
I said, “let us make this subject practical. What book have 
you in the home upon which the copyright has expired?” 
They did not seem to know, and so, in order to draw them 
out, I told them it was a book that their mothers and fathers 
read every night and every morning; a book their parents 
read nearly all of the day on the Sabbath and certainly was a 
book they loved and cherished more than any other book in 
the home. 

A sixteen-year-old girl from the country sat in the class. 
An expression of intelligence played over her face. She 
raised her hand. 

I said, “Sue, what book is it?” 

She responded, “Montgomery Ward & Co’s Catalogue.” 

The greatest inheritance that can befall your American 
boy is that he was born in poverty and reared in adversity. 
Riches is harder on the youth of our land than poverty. It is 
the knocks and bumps the American boy receives in his youth 
that prepare him for great citizenship. 

Ex-Senator Beveridge tells us that 94 per cent of our 
governors started from the farm. Let us see how the farms 
are producing the governors of our country. 

A boy on the farm at the age of five, has environments, 
such that he early has a duty—the gate is ajar, the pigs 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


291 


break out, he tells mama. He is meeting life; he is working. 
Work is a great developer of character. At the age of seven 
he gathers the eggs and feeds the calves, meeting life. At 
the age of twelve he is out with a team and plow. The 
harness breaks; he doesn’t run for papa, he runs to the fence 
and gets a piece of wire and twists it in. “Get up, Dolly” and 
“Go on, Bill.” At eighteen years of age, during the months 
of December and January, he is up in the morning at five 
o’clock, builds the old kitchen fire, does the chores, in to 
breakfast and at eight o’clock is over to the little white school 
house for one hour of frolic and fun, and take off your hat 
to the future American boy that will be heard from. 

How about the city or town boy who is nursed in the lap 
of luxury? At the age of seven he cannot dress himself 
alone. At the age of ten his mama and papa are still rock¬ 
ing him to sleep. Mama’s sweetheart and papa’s sissy. At 
the age of eighteen he comes down the street with knee 
pants, a weakling, physically and morally. He is so slender 
that when he takes a bath he has to step out of the bath-tub 
before he pulls the plug or he will go down into the sewer. 


Progress in life proceeds by metamorphic changes. 
When a thing reaches the acme of its perfection, it changes 
its form or type as the chrysalis becomes the butterfly. The 
rude hand-sickle with which the ancients used to cut their 
grain, passed through a series of improvements culminating 
in the cradle of which our grandfathers were so proud. Then 
there was a change of type, and we began with the mower 
and reaper, the latter of which has improved into the self- 
binder. The old method of threshing with flail and horse 
hoof has nothing in common with our modern threshing ma¬ 
chine, from whose side the clean grain comes gushing like 
water from a spring. 



292 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


One of the greatest contemplated achievements of 
modern invention is the production of rain by artificial 
means. Some have charged the rain-makers with blasphemy 
for thinking to interfere with Divine Providence, but never 
did a farmer turn a sod, or pull a weed in his cornfield that 
did not as much interfere with Divine Providence. It is by 
just such seeming interference that man has risen above the 
beasts. Wild nature was given man to subdue; its forces to 
tame; its beasts to domesticate; its mountains to admire; its 
valleys to bless; its mines for industry; its seas for com¬ 
merce; its soil for food, and its forests for shelter; its stars 
to contemplate and its flowers to love. Aye, truly, man is the 
favored son of creation and needs only to shake the drowsy 
sleep from his eyes to behold the magnitude of his blessings 
and opportunities. 

Yesterday, America was discovered but yet her moun¬ 
tains of iron and salt, lead and copper, gold and silver have 
opened and placed their contents at the threshold of the 
world. The hum of industry is heard in every part of our 
land, and from ocean to ocean, we have broad fields of grain, 
waving and rustling in the summer breezes; and by the rail¬ 
roads, telephones, telegraph, and wireless telegraphy we have 
brought the farthest corners of our nation together and all 
over this fairest and brightest of continents we have builded 
magnificent homes, schools, churches, and a new civilization 
has overspread our land like the green of spring time. 


One of the most beautiful things in life is youth and 
childhood. A little babe that puts its little hands upon your 
face is nearer the touch of divinity than you will ever find on 
this earth. 

Seven years ago I had been away for three months on 
a lecture tour and had not seen my little sweethearts. I re¬ 
turned home on Christmas Eve on a delayed midnight train. 
My wife knew I was coming; she met me at the door, and 



ORATORS AND ORATORY 


293 


instantly turned to the little room where my little sweethearts 
lay sleeping. As I turned on the electric lights on that 
Christmas Eve and looked down into the slumbering faces of 
my little jewels, to me the most beautiful picture I ever 
looked upon, this thought came to me: the man that is child¬ 
less may with his millions buy the picture of a babe, upon 
the canvas or chiseled in cold marble—material things— 
but the greatest picture in the world is the living picture of 
our own little American boys and American girls, and good 
people, let us so live and act that this American boy may 
develop into honest, true, Christian manhood; that this 
American girl may bloom into beautiful womanhood, the 
foundation of every nation. 






Attorney James G. McFarland 
Biographical —Born, Dubuque, Iowa, October 26, 1880. 
Educated, Dubuque public schools and University of Wiscon¬ 
sin. Took B. A. degree latter institution, 1902. Completed 
law course, same school, 1904. Removed at once to Water- 
town, S. D. Admitted to practice in this state on his cre¬ 
dentials. Formed partnership with C. X. Seward. Lasted 
until 1910, when Seward went onto the bench. Practiced 
alone till Nov. 1, 1921. Formed partnership with Carl D. 
Johnson. Married Miss Evelyn Johnson, May 31, 1906. Two 
children—both boys. Elected state legislature, 1912. Re¬ 
elected, 1914. 






james g. McFarland 


One of the happiest after-dinner speakers as 
well as one of the readiest impromptu orators in the 
legal profession of the state is Attorney James G. 
McFarland, of Watertown. Inasmuch as he is in 
such great demand for all public functions, and ow¬ 
ing to the fact that he speaks impromptu almost 
exclusively, it has been hard to gather extracts from 
his speeches, as the occasions are not numerous 
when his addresses have been stenographed. The 
three, included herein, caught in “the heat of 
action,” will suffice to give one a general idea of his 
beautiful word painting. 

EXTRACT FROM SPEECH IN HOUSE OF REPRESEN¬ 
TATIVES ON MOTHER'S PENSION BILL 

There appears in Court before the Judge—one of our 
Judges elected by our votes to do justice to poor and rich 
alike—a woman poor in this world’s goods but rich in the 
mother’s love that pulsates through her whole being. Her 
gingham dress is torn and old, her head is covered only by 
a tiny shawl, and clinging to her skirts are four beautiful 
flaxen-haired children—the youngest but a toddling babe, the 
oldest a bright-eyed boy of ten. With stern demeanor, the 
Judge turns to her and says: “What have you to say why 
judgment should not be pronounced against you that because 
of your poverty your children should be taken from you and 
your home be broken up?” 

Is this the vaunted civilization of the fair State of South 
Dakota? Should not a mother have rights—not privileges 
alone, but absolute rights on the treasury of our State for 



296 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


the rearing of her children when she is a proper custodian for 
them? 

Every precaution is thrown around this right extended 
to the widows of our State. The widow and mother must be 
a proper person to have the custody of her child. She must 
show or someone must show for her to the satisfaction of 
the Court that it is necessary in order to keep the home in¬ 
tact that she be granted certain aid from the County. Any 
citizen may object at any time on good cause shown to the 
further allowance to any person receiving a mother’s pension 
under this act. 

In the name of humanity, in the name of justice and 
in the name of the future generations of this State, the young 
men and women who are but babes today, give this bill full 
and fair consideration and by your votes let your answer 
to the Judge’s question be written on the pages of the history 
of the State. 


EXTRACT FROM ADDRESS TO JURY IN A CASE IN 

CODINGTON COUNTY 

Today, gentlemen of the Jury, the nations of Europe are 
at war. No matter what the causes may have been, no matter 
who is to blame for the great conflict that is now being waged 
abroad, no matter who will win the conflict, each nation, 
each individual in the great fight, is actuated by love of home 
and country. If you, as American citizens, were called upon 
today to fight in behalf of your country, it would be first for 
your home and next for your country and your flag. In this 
case one of the sacred principles laid down by our fore¬ 
fathers in the Constitution of the United States has been 
violated. You are called upon to do your duty as Jurors in 
this case. It is for you to punish one who has violated one of 
those sacred principles, viz: the freedom of the home and 
its sanctity. If you have one drop of red American blood 
in you, you will go to your Jury room and come forth with 
a verdict which will show this defendant that he cannot 



ORATORS AND ORATORY 


297 


violate any of these traditions. You are not called upon to 
shoulder a musket and go forth in defense of your home, 
your family, your country, but you are called upon as Jurors 
in this case to come forth with a verdict which will sustain 
the principles set down in our Constitution, which will protect 
the homes of this country, and which will make every woman 
in the State feel safe in the security of her home, be it night 
or day. 


EXTRACT FROM MEMORIAL DAY ADDRESS TO 

ELKS' LODGE 

As Elks we have learned that, when the hands of the 
clock point to the beginning of the last and twelfth hour, 
and the day is almost done, the chimes ring out a message 
to the Absent—living or dead; even so, when time points 
with solemn finger to the beginning of the last and twelfth 
month and the Year is almost gone, we gather to pay tribute 
to those who have passed to that great Pasture of Peace, 
where the grass is always sweet and green, where the sun 
is always bright, and where rest is eternal. 

“He’s an Elk, 

It matters nothing 
What the world may say or feel, 

I have tried him on his honor, 

And his heart’s as true as steel; 

Of what others say, I care not. 

Nor of what they think they see, 

He’s an Elk, clean through—God bless him, 

And he’s good enough for me.” 

5|S * * ❖ * 

Let us scatter flowers along the road of life, nor reck 
where falls the brilliant rose, the soft tinted violet, or the 
fragrant stately lily, so that they may bring rest and com¬ 
fort to some less fortunate or suffering soul. 



298 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


You, my brothers, may well catch inspiration from the 
actors club of long ago and their hope of the future, and 
should live your part in the Drama of Life to further their 
cherished end. You should be prepared to fight, if necessary, 
for these things, for a broader, bigger, better life and world; 
to fight for them under this flag whose rippling folds wave 
in a perfect blend of colors over the greatest nation in the 
world and which lies in stately, solemn, holy beauty on the 

altar of every lodge in the country. 

❖ * * * 

And so live, that when you hear the sound of the gavel 
that calls you to take your place in the Grand Lodge above, 
content in the feeling that you have done your full Elk duty 
here below, you may go to browse in the sunny pastures of 
perfect knowledge and drink of the waters of eternal peace. 
And with this great purpose of Elkdom before us, we can 
say that indeed a “Vision of the Future rises.” 































* 
























Judge Walter G. Miser 


Biographical —Born, Annapolis, O., March 26, 1882. 
Spent boyhood on farm. Educated, rural schools of Ohio; 
B. A. degree, Adelbert College of Western Reserve Uni¬ 
versity (1905). L. L. B. Cleveland Law School (1908). 
Identified with Cleveland Trust Co. while in law school and 
until 1910. Came Dakota 1910. Homesteaded, Pennington 
county. Practiced law, Rapid City, 1910-1916. Then elected 
county judge. Elected Circuit Judge (7th Circuit) 1918. 
Holding position to date. Married Zelia Soule, of Rapid 
City, 1916. Three children—all girls. 

0 





ORATORS AND ORATORY 


301 


Extracts from MEMORIAL DAY ADDRESS AT 
CUSTER , S. D., 1922 

We come today to place a flower upon the shrine of 
American valor. We come today to deck the graves of those 
who living bore aloft the Star-Spangled Banner. We come 
today in remembrance of ‘‘Those who gave their lives that 
this nation might live,” to be ourselves dedicated to the great 
task of self government, which is alike the privilege and the 
responsibility of the people of the United States of America. 
We come today to resolve with Lincoln “That from these 
honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for 
which they gave the last full measure of devotion.” We 
come today to get a lesson from the day. 

Let us not waste the occasion in platitudes, but ask 
ourselves: What was the cause for which they gave the last 
full measure of devotion? 

Let us follow the example of Lincoln and retrace the 
path of history. Backward turn the dial of time to Gettys¬ 
burg, and then back four score and seven years to that day 
when “our fathers brought forth on this continent a new 
nation.” Draw aside the curtain of the intervening years 
that we may see the radiant dawning of that day, the 
brightest morning on the calendar of human liberty, since 
on the field of Runnymede, five centuries before, the Magna 
Charta was signed. Break, if you will, the seal of mortal 
silence from lips immortal that we may listen to the voice 
of our fathers, as they say: “We hold these truths to be self- 
evident—that all men are created equal; that they are en¬ 
dowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that 
among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; 
that to secure these rights governments are instituted among 
men deriving their just powers from the consent of the gov¬ 
erned.” Here in the purpose for which America was founded 
do you find the answer to the question, What was the cause 
for which they died? 

What was the cause for which they fought? AMERICA! 
They fought for the living spirit of America; for the undy- 


302 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


ing principles of America. For America is not merely a 
broad and fertile land, nor merely a great and powerful 
people. America is a principle; America is a spirit without 
which we never would have been founded nor would we long 
retain the best government that has blest the earth. 

4 s H* 

Generations come and go. Institutions flourish and 
decay; the marching years bring new stars to shine in the 
firmament of Old Glory, but the spirit of which it is the 
symbol was the spirit of the soldiers at Bunker Hill, at 
Gettysburg, at San Juan Hill, and Chateau Thierry. 

Whatever the language of Acts of Congress; whatever 
the individual interpretation expressed in Presidential proc¬ 
lamations, when Americans fight they fight for the truths 
that we hold to be self-evident. They fight for the storm- 
tested, time-tested, battle-tested truths that are the founda¬ 
tion of the American commonwealth. And, Soldiers of 
America, the name of the war in which you fought means 
no more than the number of the regiment or the letter of the 
company in which you served. Did you do your duty? What 
flag did you carry? Was it red and white and blue? Did 
it have the stars and stripes in it? Did men call it Old 
Glory? That is all any one needs to know on Memorial Day, 

and this is Memorial Day. 

***** 

What means this banner that you carried? It means 
that upon the altar of our country men have given their all 
as freely as one would give a cup of cold water to a thirsty 
child. It means that for the ideals of America and for the 
principles of America, men have left the clasp of clinging 
arms and bared their breasts to the Hell of battle. It means 
that hearts must yearn because they do not come home. And 
so we have Memorial Day, when with the immortal Lincoln 
we again resolve “that these dead shall not have died in vain,” 
and as the flowers fall where patriot hero sleeps, they seem 
to say: 

“Their honor lives, their faith endures, 

Their noble death the right assures.” 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


303 


DEDICATION OF THE PUBLIC LIBRARY AT 

RAPID CITY 

On this occasion, when we come together to'accept for 
the people of Rapid City this beautiful and well appointed 
building, it is entirely proper that we pay a just tribute, not 
only to the intelligent generosity of him whose name this 
building bears, but also to those who first conceived the idea 
of a free public library for this City, and to those whose un¬ 
selfish devotion to that idea has made possible the happy 
fruition of our hopes. The spirit of those who have thus 
furthered the cause of intelligent citizenship is, in no small 
measure, something of the same spirit which bequeathed to 
the American people the heritage of Bunker Hill and Valley 
Forge and Gettysburg; that bequeathed to the Anglo-Saxon 
people the heritage of Magna Charta; that bequeathed to the 
people of all times the heritage of the Sermon on the Mount. 
All spring from the common source of unselfish sacrifice for 
the common good of man. 

You have builded here a club house for wayfaring men; 
a home, comfortable and cheery, where we can gather round 
the fireside of imagination with friends of olden time; with 
Lowell, Whittier and Longfellow; with Mark Twain, with 
Riley and Mr. Dooley; where Bryce may tell us of the 
strength and weakness of the American common wealth; 
where O’Connell may plead the wrongs of a mis-governed 
nation; where Burke may argue the cause of a liberty-loving 
people before a hostile Parliament; where the pages of history 
may not only furnish us the inspiration of an heroic past, 
but teach us how to avoid the pitfalls of the future; where 
through the medium of the printed page, the great preachers 
and teachers of every age and every clime, Protestant and 
Catholic, Jew and Gentile, Tory and Liberal, may tell us of 
the great truths for which they fought. 

Here is the forge at which may be shaped oratorical 
thunderbolts to be hurled in interscholastic debate; wonder¬ 
ful truths and logic to be poured forth upon an unsuspecting 
public in high school valedictory; here is the workshop where 


304 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


may be fashioned the argument to confound caitiff man at 
the bi-monthly session of the women’s club; and here we all 
may linger and enjoy the simple fireside philosophy of those 
to whom have been given the exquisite gift of reaching the 
common heart of man. 

Books were once the treasured possession of the rich 
and powerful. Today,—thanks to the perfection of the in¬ 
stallment plan,—the humblest of us—if sufficiently imbued 
with the spirit of Grant in the Wilderness,—may hope to own 
a set of Shakespeare or the Harvard Classics, ere the sands 
of time have run. But for the great mass of us, if we wish 
to enjoy the benefit of an acquaintance with the literature 
which has enriched all ages, we must turn our steps to places 
such as these. And indeed, it is well, for here in splendid 
democracy, lawyer, doctor, priest, preacher, merchant, labor¬ 
er, skilled or unskilled, young and old, humble and proud, may 
drink in equal measure of the beauty and charm of writings 
that will live forever. 

In accepting this building, we feel that giver and bene¬ 
ficiary have been alike enriched; that these books, here shel¬ 
tered, bear ideals that make for the upbuilding of a social 
fabric that insures to rich and poor, high and low, equality 
of opportunity; that we may here lay hold upon the truths 
♦■hat free us and that between the portals of this Library we 
may come and go, better citizens of a better America. 





Joseph W. Parmley 

Biographical —Born, on farm, Wisconsin. Educated, rural 
schools and Lawrence University. Came Dakota in 1883. 
Settled near Roscoe, in Edmunds county. Father of good 
roads movement in South Dakota. First superintendent of 
Schools in Edmunds county. Served also as county judge 
and in the state legislature. Home, Ipswich, S. D. 


JOSEPH W PARMLEY 

As a public speaker—one who is a master of 
finished style as well as the rough-and-tumble of 
debate—Joseph W. Parmley, of Ipswich, has forced 
his way to the front. 

His wide range of practical information gained 
in the hard school of experience stands him well in 
hand, and he draws on it in a most artistic manner 
in his public addresses. 

First we catch him addressing a bankers con¬ 
vention at Watertown. A couple of paragraphs from 
this speech reveal instantaneously his choice diction: 

“The face of our continent is changing. Yesterday we 
faced Europe. To-morrow we will face Asia. West of this 
point lies one half of the territory of the United States with 
one-tenth of the people. It is the better half and capable of 
maintaining a population many times greater than the total 
of the whole country. We are at present simply scratching 
around on the surface of things. A thousand civilized men 
will thrive where a hundred savages starved. The inner 
chambers of God’s great granite safes, where the oil and 
coal and the iron, the nitrogen, the silver and the gold have 
been stored since the morning stars sang together, are 
fastened with time locks set for the hour of man’s necessity 
It is for us to get the combination. 

% $ * SfS * 

“I come to you this afternoon with a plea for the silo, 
for I believe that it will solve some—yes many—of the finan¬ 
cial and economic problems confronting us. I believe that 
right here within a few miles of the center of the North 
American continent in the valley of the Sioux or over in the 
valley of the “Jim” or of the Missouri or on the hills of the 
Coteaus or in that trans-Missouri country, there can be es- 



308 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


tablished a permanent industry that will add fertility to an 
already fertile soil, that will bring prosperity and content¬ 
ment to a dense population and will work out on the trestle 
board of life the plans of the Great Architect of the Uni¬ 
verse.” 

How beautiful are the measured terms with 
which he expressed himself in his funeral oration 
delivered over the late Marcus P. Beebe. The clos¬ 
ing paragraphs only are herein preserved: 

When we remember that this life is transient as an eve¬ 
ning cloud and fleeting as a morning mist and that in a few 
short years these bodies must resolve to earth again, but that 
the deathless something that is within, which I call I my¬ 
self—which feels and thinks and remembers and forgets— 
will leap from a crumbling world and mount to God, I then 
count that my higher life belongs not to this world but to the 
worlds about me, and conclude that after all I possess only 
what I have given away. The true size of a man is not the 
measurement of his waist line or around his possessions, but 
his soul girth—his humanity. Mr. Beebe held in trust large 
possessions and many broad acres, but these did not own 
him. His investments were in his brain, his heart, his char¬ 
acter; and when the summons came to him to join the in¬ 
numerable caravan, he silently wrapped the drapery of his 
couch about him and said to the Great Father: “Here am I 
and all that Thou has given me.” 

In those years of drouth and disappointment that tried 
men’s souls, and which shook the faith of communities, he 
retained his never-failing composure, able to see farther into 
the pregnant future and to believe that a wise Creator placed 
here a soil unsurpassed in fertility, a healthful climate, a 
wonderful underflow of water for man in the highest type of 
civilization. He demonstrated the wisdom of his theories by 
practice and his efforts were rewarded with unerring success. 
All that was mortal and physical now peacefully reposes 
under the green sod of the prairie he loved so well. His 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


309 


higher life grafted onto the infinite returned to God and lives 
on with the ages. 

There is little doubt as to the place that will be assigned 
him by the historian who weighs, measures and analyzes the 
characters who build homes and states. In the pantheon of 
pioneers who have blazed the trails of the great Northwest 
a cunning hand will engrave the name of Marcus P. Beebe. 

In order to show our orator in a different mood, 
copious extracts from his Commencement address, 
delivered before the graduating class of the Mo- 
bridge High School in May, 1922, are herein given: 

TO THE GRADUATING CLASS OF 1922, GREETINGS: 

I said graduating class—excuse me. You have not gradu¬ 
ated, you have only passed into a new class. You are 
entering a large university—the University of action. Your 
play days are through. You have been eating unearned bread. 
The ideas which you possess, the theories which you hold, 
sprang from the brains of others. Parents, teachers and 
society have fed you and led you to this point. Now you 
will be called upon to settle. You are face to face with 
experience—the greatest instructor of the human race. In 
the past your promotion depended upon your memory. Mem¬ 
ory is a good thing, but you have reached the stage where 
precedent does not count. It is up to you to solve to¬ 
day’s problems. Yesterday is gone, and its opportuni¬ 
ties will never return. You are the heirs of all past 
ages in the foremost files of time. Every door is open to 
you, but it is your job to get in. The world is waiting for 
you to prove up. It doesn’t ask who you are; it wants to 
know what you are before accepting the final proof. 

5 ): ♦ * * * 

When you go to college do not think you have to 
put on a lot of dog, of which keeping a valet and a high 
priced automobile are glaring examples. Don’t let kind 
friends, your sister or your sweetheart litter up your 
room with a lot of cushions and such stuff. I want to say 


310 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


in passing that this is a mighty good old world—the best 
I was ever in—but it is no cushiony affair. If you soften 
your brain and weaken your nerves and make your mus¬ 
cles mushy a similar mental and moral condition will re¬ 
sult. If you become sallow and nervous and effeminate 
from the use of cigarettes some young barbarian w'ith a 
Spartan heart who has worked his way through school 
and knows the value of a dollar because he earned it, and 
who knows the value of education because he got it by burn¬ 
ing midnight oil, will elbow you clean off the earth. These 
boys ask no quarter and will give none. Take it from me 
that this cushion business, this bull dog and mandolin busi¬ 
ness, doesn’t get you far on life’s journey. In college all 
experience proves that it is better to chase a football than 
a high-ball, but remember that you must keep after the sheep 
skin as well as the pig skin. Kites rise against, not with 
the wind. No man ever worked a passage in a dead calm. 

* * * * * 

It has been said that those who cannot pay their way 
from the cradle to the grave have no right to make the 
journey. I take it that none of you were born with a silver 
spoon in your mouth—and I congratulate you on that fact. 
The cards are stacked against the rich man’s son. There 
is no greater luck than for a young man to be thrown on 
his own resources. If you have health and strength, a good 
mind and a clear conscience, you cannot be poor. I have 
known of some millionaires who were as poor as Job’s 
proverbial turkey. They spent their lives in piling up 
riches but at last society allotted to them only six feet of 
sod. 

I would not have you think I am decrying an effort 
to provide a reasonable competency—that is your duty. 
There is no virtue in poor food or shabby clothes. It is 
the effort by which the yoke of poverty is thrown off that 
makes the man. Boys and girls can have no nobler ancestry 
than one made up of men and women who have worked for 
a living and given honest work. There is not enough money 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


311 


in all the banks of South Dakota to place a lazy man on a 
level with his industrious neighbor. I believe that I can 
truthfully say that the industry born of pioneer life runs 
in your veins and it is not flattery when I say I believe you 
will measure up to the job that is to be yours. 

* * * * * 

0 

In this new west we are building up a great agricul¬ 
tural empire—not political, but a democracy. Here is a 
country where no man can be a tyrant and none a slave. 
A country where every man has a chance, and not only a 
chance but a fair chance. Where poverty is full of hope 
and wealth full of modesty. Where the color of the skin 
does not make us forget the color of the blood. Part of 
the greatest republic the mind of man ever conceived. A 
republic which is not a white man’s land or a black man’s 
land but all men’s home. Let us make it a republic true 
to the Declaration of Independence, true to the Sermon on 
the Mount and true to the Golden Rule. 

sj: sj< Jj: :J< 

I am not so simple minded as to believe that we will 
ever return to those days of small fortune and greater 
contentment enjoyed by our fathers and by us a generation 
ago. But I believe we are in a time or approaching a time 
when we will take a man for what he is rather than for what 
he is worth. I do not care whether a man is a banker or 
a brick layer; if he is a good banker or a good brick layer 
he is a useful citizen. If he is dishonest, if he is tricky, 
if he shirks his job or tries t 0 cheat his neighbor, be he 
great or small, be he a poor man cheating a rich man or a 
rich man oppressing a poor man, in either case he is a bad 
citizen. The more able the man, if he is a corrupt political 
or an unscrupulous business man, or a demagogue who seeks 
to set one portion of his fellowmen against another, his 
ability makes him the greater curse to the community. The 
virtue that stays at home and bemoans the wickedness of 
the world is of scant use to society. We must have the 
qualities of courage, of hardihood, or power to hold ones 


312 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


own in the hurly-burly of life. Back of our laws, back 
of the administration, back of our system of Government, 
lies the average of the manhood of our people; and in the 
long run, we are going up or going down according to the 
average standard of our citizenship, for the square deal 
between men and nations. No prosperity and no glory can 
save the nation that is rotten at heart. 

While you are trying to accomplish great things do not 
be discouraged if you fail. We all have a mission to per¬ 
form in this world for which our talents particularly fit 
us. Happy is he who finds his mission, then throws into 
it the energies of his soul, seeking its acomplishment rather 
than his own glory. It has been wisely said: “Man is not 
born to solve the problem of the universe, but to find out 
what he has to do and to restrain himself within the limits 
of his own powers.” Having found what you have to do, 
whether it be to lead an army or to sweep a crossing, to 
harangue senates, address juries, till the soil, or prescribe 
medicine, do it with your whole might. If you have only 
one talent, remember you are responsible only for its em¬ 
ployment. If you cannot do all you wish to do, you can 
at least do your best. Remember that the battle of life can 
not be fought by proxy. You will have to be there in 
person. Be your own helper, be earnest, watchful and 
diligent; and if you do not win success you will have done 
the next best thing—you will have deserved it. 

In climbing the stairs, disappointments will come, friends 
will fail you and your experience will be the same as that 
of every human being who has passed from the cradle to 
the grave. When the light goes out and the world seems 
dark, I bid you telephone the skies and e’er the echo of 
your wail has died away, there will come back the response: 
“Thou God seest me.” 




Biographical —Born, Indiana. Educated, rural schools, 
Carmel Academy, Earlham College and Chicago University. 
Took A. B. at Earlham and M. A. at Chicago. Given his 
Doctor’s degree by Earlham college in 1913. Taught, Guil¬ 
ford (N. C.) college, Plattville (Wis.) Normal and Univer¬ 
sity of South Dakota. President State College, Brookings, 
S. D., 1917. Author of numerous pamphlets and reports on 
Geology; also the Geography of South Dakota. Married Miss 
Inez Beebe, 1916. 



ELLWOOD C. PERISHO 


In order to appreciate the oratory of President 
Perisho, one must hear it; that is, his forceful de¬ 
livery and inviting personality are the main things 
that give vitality to his public speaking. He is a 
stirring orator, universally admired, and he is in 
constant demand as a lecturer in a large number of 
the different states in the union. For commence¬ 
ment, he invariably has more dates than he can 
possibly fill; in fact, one year, he had twenty-eight 
invitations for the same night. He speaks on a great 
variety of subjects, and seems equally at home on 
each theme. Only a few minor extracts from his 
numerous great speeches can be incorporated. 

The following is an extract from an address on 
“Citizenship” given at Harrisburg, Pa. 

You cannot have a Republican form of government or 
maintain the Democratic institutions of a state unless you 
have an intelligent citizenship. You can not have an in¬ 
telligent citizenship unless you have an educated people. 
You cannot have an educated people unless they have the 
necessary intellectual training which gives them the funda¬ 
mental conception of how to vote and how to rule. 

TRIBUTE TO DEAN YOUNG GIVEN AT THE STATE 

UNIVERSITY 

The universal sorrow today of Faculty, Students and 
friends cannot be expressed in words nor can the grief of the 
University be told in any form of speech. No words of mine 
can show the admiration and love of this institution for the 


316 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


life just passed. Nothing save the silence of our hearts 
can tell how much we thought of him or with what full 
measure we appreciate his work. 

***** 

So little do we understand, so finite is our wisdom, we 
do not know but that the best of life comes with death. No 
system of reasoning will ever make people believe that a 
condition which becomes universal is an evil. An oriental 
philosopher taught his people that the Gods hid from men 
the happiness of death in order that they might live content 
with life without a murmur. 

It may be that we should think of death—not as a loss— 
but rather as a gain—not as the end but only as the be¬ 
ginning. The larger faith of which we have heard today 
teaches us that death, even at its worst, is not eternal. 

The following extract is from the address, 
“Ships or Schools,” delivered before the State Edu¬ 
cation Association at Mitchell, S. D., in 1912: 


Two masters now rule the world—Force and Reason. 
Men everywhere, independent of state or nation, creed or 
party, trade or profession—are held in the stern grasp of the 
one or yield to the gentle teaching of the other. Conquest 
by strength and power—irrespective of the right of others— 
is the sentiment of the one. Leadership by intelligence and 
equity—considerate of all men, is the motto of the other. 
Might is right, thunders the one. Love will triumph, whispers 
the other. Under the smoke of conflict, the grime of avarice 
and the struggle of greed is the one. With the joy of living, 
and thrill of hope and the “beauty of the lilies,” is the other. 
In the shadow of the coming of swords lives the one; in the 
light of the morning of peace dwells the other. 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


317 


I congratulate the state and the nation, that the greatest 
power for conquest this country ever saw is not the standing 
army, so many thousand strong, with all their cannon and 
canister, shot and shell, swords and sabers; but it is the ris¬ 
ing army of 20,000,000 children enrolled in the schools of 
America. The most powerful set of officers this nation main¬ 
tains are not our generals and captains, the commodores and 
commanders of the army and navy, but they will be found 
in the host of more than 2,500,000 teachers, who without 
drum or bugle, are gently planting deep and securely into the 
heads and hearts of our boys and girls that best sort of 
patriotism which in a generation that is to come will prove 
itself the very bulwark of the American Republic. 


A TRIBUTE TO BOOKER T. WASHINGTON, GIVEN 
DURING THE ADDRESS BEFORE THE STATE 
EDUCATION ASSOCIATION AT ABERDEEN 
NOVEMBER 1915 

No discussion just now of the value of Industrial Edu¬ 
cation would be proper without stopping a moment to pay 
a tribute to the life and work of that noted citizen at whose 
grave a whole race mourns today. 

Born a slave, spending his youth in poverty, but am¬ 
bitious to secure an education—he worked his way through 
Hampton Institute. In the early 80’s he went to Tuskegee, 
Ala., where he founded his great Industrial School. For 
one-third of a century he gave every effort of his life to the 
development of this institution. Tuskegee with its 3,500 
acres of land, its almost 100 buildings, its property worth 
$500,000 and its student body, present and past—all this 
is the monument to Booker T. Washington. 

He needs no marble tomb, no granite shaft, no stone 
Sarcophagus to be remembered by the people of his age; 
for his very life with its nobleness of service and its in¬ 
spiration of work is deeply carved upon the hearts of all 
his people. 



318 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


It took Abraham Lincoln with the Union Army to open 
the door of opportunity to the negro. It required the Na¬ 
tional Congress and most of our States to confer upon him 
the title of Citizen, but it was left to an humble slave to 
really show the black men how to pass through the door 
and make use of this greatest gift—the Freedom of Ameri¬ 
can Citizenship. 

He may not have been the most cultured of his people— 
yet none were held in so high esteem. He may not have been 
the most eloquent of his race—yet men everywhere, white 
and black, were eager to hear him speak. He may not have 
been the most learned of the Negroes—yet he was their 
greatest leader. 

Most men becoming famous bow to the dictation of 
social and political ambition—not so with Booker T. Wash¬ 
ington. He never dreamed of Social Equality—he never 
talked of Race Prejudice—he never thought of Political 
Office. With him and his race, it was work, preparation, in¬ 
dustry, achievement. 

Tonight men everywhere, no matter their race or color, 
forgetting all parties and factions, never thinking of Church 
or Creed, stand with bowed heads and thankful hearts in 
memory of this great man, for the life he led and the work 
he accomplished as the Moses of his people. 

The following extracts are from an address, 
“The Economic Phase of the Liquor Traffic,” given 
before mass meetings in Sioux Falls, Mitchell, Lead 
and Aberdeen: 

The proposition which I submit for your consideration 
is this: You can take any great economic question that you 
choose and you will find that the financial interest of the 
Liquor problem will rise up and overshadow it completely. 
The crime of this country is costing the American people 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


319 


$3,500,000 a day—yet newspapers, judges, etc. assure you 
that two-thirds to three-fourths of all the crimes committed 
can be traced to the saloons of the country. 

Much is said about Taxation and the need of a new 
system for the collection of taxes—no doubt this is needed— 
but as we find it today we have a little over $100,000,000,000. 
of taxable property in the U. S. One percent of this is 
$1,000,000,000. Very seldom do we pay as much as 2 per¬ 
cent—but if all did the total taxes collected would not more 
than equal the amount we pay for strong drink. 

We are told that the Government should own and oper¬ 
ate all our mines. Even if this were true the total gross 
output of all the gold, silver, iron, lead, zinc, tin and all the 
other metaliferous products will not exceed $700,000,000, 
while the annual productions of all our coal, oil, gas, cement, 
clay, stone, salt and all other non-metaliferous products will 
not exceed $1,000,000,000. Hence the total in any case of all 
mines will be far less than the amount the people spend for 
liquor. Take any great economic problem you please and 
the Liquor Traffic will rise up and overshadow it completely. 

All this concerning the liquor traffic—and I have said 
nothing of how it warps in a cloud of mist the judgment of 
the wisest; changes the most eloquent orator into a stammer¬ 
ing imbecile; or goes on with its work of devastation until 
the REASON is dethroned and the WILL is destroyed, and 
the poor victim sinks to helpless ruin. 

Nor have I told you that at the door of every saloon is 
want, woe and wretchedness, regret and ruin—and with 
these you will always find Neglected Chance, Lost Fortune, 
Forgotten Vows, and Broken Hearts. 





William B. Sterling 

Biographical —Born Dixon, Ill., Feb. 9, 1863. Gradu¬ 
ated Dixon high school, at age of sixteen. Taught country 
school and read law. Came Dakota, 1881. Settled on a 
farm near Huron, with parents. Clerked clothing store, 
Huron. Studied law with N. D. Walling. Entered State 
University Law School, Madison, Wisconsin, 1883. Took 
three-year course in two. Returned Huron. Formed law 
partnership with William T. Love. Elected states attorney, 
Beadle county, 1886. Re-elected, 1888. Appointed U. S. 
District attorney for South Dakota by President Harrison 
in 1889. Appointed attorney for Northwestern railway 
company in this state about the same time. Resigned both 
positions June, 1895, and accepted attorneyship for the Fre¬ 
mont, Elkhorn & Missouri Valley Railroad Company. Head¬ 
quarters, Omaha, Neb. Married Miss Olive Snow, Dixon, 
111., June 4, 1890. Died at Omaha, Oct. 15, 1897. 





























WILLIAM B. STERLING 


During the pioneer days of Dakota, one young 
attorney loomed up above all of his contemporaries 
as an orator. It was William B. Sterling, of Huron. 
What a calamity that he should have been stricken 
down by typhoid fever at the tender age of thirty- 
four, when the budding flowers of a bright manhood, 
filled with promise, had just begun to bloom. He 
was the leader of the state bar, until he left the 
state just prior to his death—a fearless attorney, a 
shrewd politician and an inspiring orator. 

After his death, the Honorable Coe I. Crawford 
collected and had published his “Memoirs.” It is 
from this volume that the following extracts of his 
speeches are taken. 

Addressing the Beadle County Republican Con¬ 
vention at Huron, on May 5, 1888, he said: 

But there is yet another man, who, though he does not 
seek the nomination, is the property of the republican party; 
and who, if that party were to nominate him unasked, could 
not and would not, I believe, refuse to stand as a candidate. 
I refer to him of the great heart and mighty brain, of whom 
it has been said that he would fire the hearts of the young 
men, stir the blood of our manhood, and rekindle the fervor 
of the veteran. I refer to the man who underwent defeat in 

the last National Campaign, but who rose, Phoenix-like, 
above the ashes of defeat, and stands before the world today 
as America’s foremost citizen. That man, gentlemen, is the 

great Commoner from Maine, James G. Blaine. 


322 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


After reading the previous outburst, it is easy 
to discern why the bar of Beadle county, five years 
later, at the time of Blaine’s death, chose Sterling 
to deliver the eulogy in their behalf. On this latter 

occasion, he said in part: 

/ 

He is dead. That great heart, that mighty intellect, 
that generous soul, who, for more than thirty years has 
been one of the most prominent figures in American history, 
is no more. * * * “God’s finger touched him and he slept!” 
Once more the greatest nation since the world began bows 
its head in deep humility and great sorrow in the presence 
of the Divine mystery, the mystery of mortal dissolution and 
human death; while the people of the whole civilized world 
pay respectful tribute to the w T orth and genius of the great 
departed. 

He H* H^ H< 

Sleep on, proud spirit, ‘tis well thou are at rest; no 
more shall thy royal pride be wounded by the shafts of envy 
and malice; never again shall thy great heart be torn with 
the fierce and bitter contentions of the busy life thou hast 
lead! Peace has come, at last, to thine indomitable and un¬ 
conquerable spirit, which no obstacle could appall, no mis¬ 
fortune disturb, no defeat intimidate, no calamity subdue. 
Ended are thy conflicts, thy triumphs and thy defeats. Silent 
the magic voice that never sounded a retreat, or uttered one 
complaint against the malignant fates that wrecked the 
hopes and ambitions of a life time. Into the shadows of the 
deep and insoluble mystery, thy heroic spirit has taken its 
flight, leaving as a rich legacy the heritage of a life well 
spent. 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


323 


Speaking at the dedication of the South Dakota 
building at the Worlds’ fair in Chicago in 1893, he 
said in part: 

In this brief period of time, scarcely the duration of a 
heart-beat in the life of this venerable old world, the desert 
and morass, as if by the touch of a magic wand, have sunk 
into the bowels of the earth; and in its place, by the shores 
of yonder inland sea, ever murmuring in loud or gentle ac¬ 
cents its song of eternity, has arisen a city more white and 
beautiful and fair than the human mind had ever thought 
to see in all its wildest dreams, this side of the pearly gates 
of heaven; a city whose graceful, winding rivers seem to 
have caught their hues from the skies which bend over them; 
whose sparkling fountains vie in beauty with the rainbow; 
whose rose gardens scent the air with sweetest perfume, and 
whose golden-tipped towers and minarets, kissed by the 
warm rays of the summer sun, reflect back to heaven a vision 
of its own loveliness. 

Pillar upon pillar, facade upon facade, dome upon dome, 
column upon column, rises the great “White City” upon the 
vision, ornamented by frescoes of rarest beauty and design; 
and crowned by statuary as beautiful as a sculptor’s dream; 
while beyond, and skirting all, the stately peristyle rears its 
proud front in silent majesty; and the noble statute of the 
Republic points the way of all benighted nations to a higher 
and happier civilization. 

When he determined to leave the state and go 
to Nebraska, the citizens of Huron gave him and his 
family a farewell banquet on August 9, 1895. In 
replying to one of the toasts that had been given, he 
said, among many other beautiful things. 

As I listened to the kind and flattering words of my old 
and valued friend, who has just taken his seat; and, as the 
last fourteen years of my life spent in your midst passed 


324 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


in quick review before my mind, with all the rapidity of a 
dream, I said to myself, I would rather have deserved those 
kind words—and I know I have not—and have won the true 

friendship of the men and women who sit at this board to¬ 
night, than to have accumulated, during the years of my 
residence among you, the fortunes of a king; and I would 
rather take with me to my new home, in the chief city of 
yonder sister state, the sincere and honest good-will and best 
wishes of my South Dakota friends, than to carry away with 
me the wealth of treasures and of mines. 

But there are other, and yet stronger ties, which endear 
this spot to me; ties almost too sacred to be mentioned out¬ 
side the sanctuary of the human heart. By yonder river side 
stands my first home, of sacred memory; the home to which 
I brought the bride of my heart and love; and where five 
of the happiest years of my life have been spent in your 
society; while, as I turn my face to the North, I see in my 
mind’s eye, upon her broad prairies, a plain farm house 
around which are clustered the holiest, saddest memories of 
my life. 

Upon your soil my dead are buried, and in your hearts 
their lives are enshrined. Here I shall leave behind me 
those who are close and dear to me: father, kinsman, friends. 
Perhaps some one may say: Why then do you leave all this 
to become a stranger in a strange land? To such an one I 
answer: Go ask the birdling why it leaves its mother’s nest 
to fly away to danger, and perhaps to death. 

It seems rather strange that he should have 
made this implied prediction, and should then have 
-flown away to his own early death in a compara¬ 
tively strange land, only two years later. 

When he and his family arrived in Omaha, the 
commercial club of that city tendered them a re- 


ORATORS AND ORATORY 


325 


ception. Speaking again impromptu, without 
manuscript or notes, as he was accustomed to doing, 
he made a lengthy address in which he said in part: 

Some one has said, that men build the cities of the 
world, but that the Almighty fixes the places where they 
shall stand. 

By the side of yonder mighty river, once a great artery 
of commerce, and even now a strategic boundary line of 
transportation and of trade, I believe He has planted His 
rod; and that here, in the years to come, shall wealth and 
people and commerce congregate. Standing tonight in this 
ambitious young city, as it nestles among the gently sloping 
hills of the fair valley of the Missouri, with its countless 
acres of fertile soil, unequalled, save perhaps, by the rich 
plains of Hungary, or the fat valley of the Nile; and look¬ 
ing off to the westward upon a vast sea of waving green, 
leaping beneath the warm rays of a summer sun, to a rich 
and early harvest, unbroken but for a network of iron bands, 
which radiate from Omaha like the silken thread of a spid¬ 
er’s web; and looking beyond to where the mountains of the 
West, with their rich treasures of coal, oil, silver, and gold, 
rear their proud crests to the sky, I am struck with the be¬ 
lief that nature recognizes your pre-eminent location, and 
that here, in the next quarter of a century, a great inland 
city will be reared. 
























SECTION III 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 

Prose writers naturally divide themselves into 
ten main classes: Novelists, Historians, Journal¬ 
ists, Scientific writers, Text-book Authors, Transla¬ 
tors, Essaysists, Critics, Dramatists and Sketch writ¬ 
ers. These divisions will, as far as practicable, be 
respected in this section of this book. 

NOVELISTS 

In the classification of the subject matter in this 
volume, it has been practically impossible to differ¬ 
entiate between the Poets and the Novelists, because 
of the fact that several of the writers have become 
prominent and have been recognized in both fields. 
This is especialy true of Joseph Mills Hanson who 
has writen several books of history, two of fiction, a 
Pageant, and one volume of poetry; also of Hamlin 
Garland whose prose productions far outbalance 
his poems. It became necessary, however, to classi¬ 
fy them among the poets, owing to the fact that one 
cannot quote at length from a prose work. They 
will, nevertheless, have to be considered in both 
fields. 

Those who have been treated as “novelists” are, 
therefore, the ones who have written novels ex¬ 
clusively, who are recognized as novelists and who 
have left poetry entirely alone. 



Virgil D. Boyles and Kate Boyles-Bingham 


Biographical —Virgil: Born, Louisville, Illinois, January 
22, 1872. Family removed to Dakota in 1874. Settled on 
claim near Olivet. 

Kate: Born, Olivet, S. D., 1876. Family removed to 
Yankton in latter ’70’s. 

Both of them educated in the Yankton city schools and 
at Yankton college. 

Kate taught in the country; also for three years in the 
Yankton schools, and one year in Boyles’ Business college, 
Mitchell, S. D. Married J. H. Bingham, 1908. Home in 
Chamberlain. 

Virgil settled in Mitchell in 1898. Court reporter, fourth 
judicial circuit. Married Grace Glezen, 1897. Father of 
two children—a girl and a boy. Judge of Yankton County 
since 1918. 









VIRGIL D. BOYLES 

AND 

KATE BOYLES-BINGHAM 

« , 

In the realm of fiction the two South Dakota 
writers who have gained the greatest recognition 
thus far are a sister and brother—Virgil D. Boyles 
and Kate Boyles-Bingham. These two writers have 
adhered rigidly to prose composition. Their mastery 
of ideal English, their powers of imagery, and their 
ability to portray life—all combine to make them 

our best-loved authors. 

« 

Their first book, entitled “Langford of the 
Three Bars,” which appeared in 1907, proved to be 
a great seller; in fact the sales of it ran into the 
thousands. For a long while it was the McClurg 
Company’s heaviest seller over their retail counter 
in Chicago. Eastern life had been threshed bare by 
eastern authors. Down-east folks were hungry for 
something western. This book helped to gratify 
their desires. 

It has an attractive title—one of the chief 
assets in stimulating sales for any production. It is 
admirably illustrated in colors by N. C. Wyeth, 
whose ability to portray western life commands re¬ 
spect. 

In the early days of Dakota, one of the greatest 
outlaws and cattle rustlers in the whole country was 
the notorious Jack Sully. He was shot on a lonely 
island in the Missouri river by a posse under Deputy 



330 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


U. S. Marshal Petrie, in 1904, after he had broken 
jail at Mitchell a few months before. Sully, under 
an assumed name, is made to play the leading role 
in “Langford of the Three Bars.” It is a typical 
western story with the plot covering the region 
around the mouth of the White river where. it 
empties into the Missouri. 

The opening chapter, headed “The Island With 
a Mystery,” carries a person boldly and at once to 
the scene of human disaster. The reader’s attention 

is promptly arrested. In the second chapter one is 
put directly “On The Trail,” while in the third, 
“Louise,” is introduced with telling effect. It is, 
withal, a masterpiece of fiction, with an historical 
setting which gives to it much of the nature of an 
historical novel. 

The leading character passes through many 
startling incidents; is caught; placed in jail; es¬ 
capes; and finally, in Chapter XXII, makes “The 
Outlaw’s Last Stand.” 

In 1909, their second book appeared. It is called 
“The Homesteaders;” and like their first one, the 
plot to it is laid in the region west of the Missouri 
river, in South Dakota. This one also proved popu¬ 
lar. It was followed in 1910 by “The Spirit Trail,” 
an Indian tale growing out of “The Treaty of Lara¬ 
mie” in 1868. Although the plot is laid in Wyoming 
it shifts its way across South Dakota, and has a 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


331 


great deal to do with the development of the region 
around Yankton during territorial days. 

Their “Hoosier Volunteer,” came from press in 
1914. For a soul-stirring tragedy—that is, for a 
sucession of minor tragedies, which, when put to¬ 
gether, make up a completed whole—it certainly 
outclasses their first book; although its demand, to 
date, could not be given a comparative rating with 
the first one which has now been on the market for 
many years. The recurring ghost story in it sur¬ 
passes anything of its kind in English—the one in 
Hawthorne’s “House of Seven Gables,” or indeed, 
“The White Old Maid” itself, not excepted. 

A later effort is their “Daughter of the Bad¬ 
lands,” which was placed on the market in 1922. 
It is a fascinating story of love and adventure, and 
covers the entire south half of the region west of 
the Missouri river in South Dakota. 



Charles E. DeLand 

Biographical —Born, on farm, Oneida County, N. Y. 
Educated, rural schools of N. Y. and at Whitestown Semin¬ 
ary. When a young man, settled in Knox County, Illinois. 
Taught school one term. Studied law in office at Galesburg, 
Ill. Began practice in 1878. Came to Dakota in 1883. Su¬ 
preme Court reporter since 1913. 





ATTORNEY CHARLES E. DeLAND 


The heaviest novel by a South Dakota author 
to date is “The Psychic Trio,” by Charles E. De- 
Land, of Pierre. One must work every minute he is 
reading it, in order to interpret it. In this strong 
novel the author has developed a new and enticing 
social “triangle.” 

However, his volume which shows the greatest 
amount of research work is the “Mis-Trials of 
Jesus.” It covers the whole range of Hebrew and 
Roman criminal procedure, and shows conclusively 
the prejudice of the Sanhedrin against Jesus, and 
the utter impossibility of giving him a fair trial. 

In the midst of our boasted civilization we still 
enjoy pausing in our far wanderings away from 
savagery to look back and try to catch some glimpse 
of the life of the almost annihilated Amedican In¬ 
dian. Such glimpses, however, are pleasurable only 
when some inspired story-teller portrays that life’s 
rude beauty, as DeLand has done in his “Tragedy 
of the White Medicine.” 

“Thoughts Afield” covers a wide range of sub¬ 
jects in matters of political, commercial, historical, 
legal and sociological interest. The versatility and 
erudition of the author and the nature of the sub¬ 
jects treated, combined with his well known con¬ 
scientious accuracy, make it a most valuable con¬ 
tribution to the literature of our state. 

(See Historians.) 







Dr. Will Lillibridge 


Biographical —Born, Union County, Iowa, 1878. Raised 
on a farm. Graduated, Dental Department Iowa State Uni¬ 
versity, 1898. Came to Sioux Falls. Practiced dentistry. 
Wrote six novels and one descriptive book. Died January 29, 














1909. 





































WILL LILLIBRIDGE 


Among our novelists, proper, the name of Dr. 
Will Lillibridge, of Sioux Falls, holds a prominent 
place. It is unfortunate that one possessed of such 
talents as he, should have died at the age of thirty- 
one when his literary career was just unfolding it¬ 
self. And yet it is not strange, for there is a natural 
limit to human endurance. He practiced dentistry 
during the day and did all of his writing at night— 
producing seven books in the brief period of eight 
years. He was not very strong, and this double 
duty soon sapped his strength. 

In his auto-biography, he says: “Every Novel 
may have a happy close, but a Real life’s story has 
but one inevitable ending—Death.” His was a “real 
life’s story” and it had an early “inevitable ending/’ 

His first novel, “Ben Blair,” published in 1905, 
brought him national fame as an author. This book 
has now been dramatized by a motion picture pro¬ 
ducer. He followed this in 1907 with “Where the 

/• 

Trail Divides,” and in 1908 with two more novels, 
“The Dissolving Circle” and “The Quest Eternal.” 
The year 1909 saw his “Dominant Dollar” appear. 
After his death, A. C. McClurg & Co., of Chicago, 
published two more of his manuscripts. These were 
“Queribus Alba” which appeared in 1910, and his 
“Breath of the Prairie,” which they brought out in 
1911. 



REV. JOSEPH E. NORVELL 


In the religious literature of the state, first 
place must go to the Reverend Joseph E. Norvell. 
He has a style that is masterful, charming, convinc¬ 
ing. For working out a plot, his skill is superb. His 
novels are completed wholes; they lack nothing; 
their finish is artistic. 

His first literary venture was “The Malady,” 
a volume of nine sermons which appeared in 1909. 
Perhaps the strongest sermon in it is the one on 
“The Church,” the theme of which is “The Valley 
of Dry Bones.” 

“The Lost Guide” followed in 1910. It is per¬ 
haps his best work. The format shows two yoke of 
oxen hauling a covered wagon over the western 
prairies with their guide lost. It is very suggestive 
of the contents of the book. 

Norvall’s heaviest work is “Jack of Deer Creek” 
which was published in 1916. It has more of the 
popular novel about it, and is affectionately dedi¬ 
cated to his elder brother, John Spencer Norvell. 

His latest book (1922) is “The Lost Line,” a 
radically religious novel of the pronounced type. It 
deals fearlessly with modern conditions and shows 
the author at his best. From a literary standpoint, 
ft is par excellence. From a church standpoint, it 
will invite controversy. 



Joseph E. Norvell 

Biographical —Born on farm near Glenwood, Iowa, May 
2, 1859. Educated in district schools of Iowa and at Tabor 
College. Removed Dakota in 1882. Settled in Union county. 
Married Sarah Barnum. Four children—two sons and two 
daughters. Local preacher, Iowa, three years. Pastor (M. 
E. Church) in Dakota forty years. Total ministry to date 
(1922) forty-three years. Author of four religious novels. 







Mrs, Jewell Bothwell-Tull 

Biographical —Born, Yates Center, Kansas, Aug. 3, 1892. 
Removed to Montana, then Idaho, then Utah. Educated in 
University of Idaho. Specialized on English and French. 
Spent one year abroad. Studied French in Paris. Married 
Prof. Clyde Tull, 1912. Home at Mitchell, S. D. Instructor 
in French, Dakota Wesleyan University. Has written nu¬ 
merous short stories and poems, published by eastern houses. 
Author of six books to date, and of four plays. She is a 
member of the Delta Gamma National Society and her bi¬ 
ography appears in the book, “Who’s Who in Delta Gamma.” 
















MRS. JEWELL BOTHWELL-TULL 


One of the cleverest writers the state has pro¬ 
duced is Mrs. Jewell Bothwell-Tull who was for 
several years instructor in French at Dakota Wes¬ 
leyan University. 

Her maiden effort was a serial of five volumes 
—all centered about the same characters—written 
for school libraries. About half the schools in South 
Dakota have the full set in their libraries. The titles 
are: “Winning of the Bronze Cross,” “Rob Riley,” 
“Just Jimmy,” “That Earns Boy,” and the “Phan¬ 
tom Lion of Goodrich Creek.” These are all boy 
scout books. 

Mrs. Tull is also the author of a fascinating 
novel, “Sylvia of the Stubbles,” and of four plays 
that have been successfully staged as follows: “Rose- 
Petal,” “The Slacker,” “Little Guttersnipe,” and 
“Home.” For several summers she has been on the 
Chautauqua platform for Redpath-Vawter, staging 
her own plays with a troupe known as “The Tull 
Players.” 

In addition to her novels and her dramatic pro¬ 
ductions, she is also an excellent poet. “Poetry: a 
Magazine of Verse,” uses her poems very liberally. 
She has also written several good short stories. 



Stewart Edward White 

Biographical —Born, Grand Rapids, Mich., March 12, 
1873. Educated University of Michigan (Ph. B. and M. A.) 
and Columbia Law school. Married Elizabeth Grant, of 
Newport, R. I. Major 144th Field Artillery, World War. 
Came Dakota, early days. Lived in Black Hills. Author 
of twenty-five volumes and of numerous short stories. Fel¬ 
low Royal Geographical Society (London). Member Ameri¬ 
can Institute of Arts and Letters. Present home, Burlin¬ 
game, Cal. 




STEWART EDWARD WHITE 


One of South Dakota’s pioneer authors who for¬ 
merly lived in the Black Hills and who has held the 
literary attention of the nation for a quarter of a 
century, is Stewart Edward White. 

His first two books, “The Westerners,” and 
“The Claim Jumpers,” are essentially South Da¬ 
kotan. The scene of the first one is laid in the 
vicinity of Rapid City; and of the latter, around 
Keystone. They were both published in 1901. A 
new star had appeared in the literary firmament. 
His books attracted sudden and nation-wide atten¬ 
tion. Unlike some authors, he did not exhaust him¬ 
self in his first volume or two, but has kept on grow¬ 
ing. 

“The Blazed Trail” appeared in 1902, and the next 
year saw three high-grade novels—all from his 
prolific pen—placed upon the market. The year 1904 
was equally prolific, with three more novels to his 
credit. Although as yet but thirty-one years of age, 
he had found himself—famed himself young. 

Since then, book after book of his has appeared 
upon the markets until he has earned and gained an 
international reputation. As a short story writer, 
he stands at the top of the list. None excel him. 
His strength lies in his exceptional ability to inter¬ 
pret outdoor life. This he does with an ease and a 
charm that are most inviting. And nowhere has he 
done this with greater power than in “The Cabin” 
(1909). 



342 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


MISCELLANEOUS NOVELISTS 

MRS. EMMA B. BYRNE 

From the pressess of the Roxburgh Publishing 
Company, of Boston, in 1916, there was issued one 
of the charming novels of that year, entitled ‘‘The 
Song Beneath the Keys,” by Mrs. Emma Byrne, 
wife of Hon. Frank M. Byrne, formerly governor 
of South Dakota. The foreword to it was written 

by Mrs. Cassie R. Hoyt, author of “Le Bonne.” 

LOUISE ELLIOTT 

One of the happy volumes that appeared upon 
the market during 1913 was Mrs. Elliott's “Six 
Weeks On Horseback Through Yellowstone Park.” 
It is, in reality, a travelogue containing fifty-two 
high grade illustrations of scenery in the park. The 
book contains the camp letters which Mrs. Elliott is 
presumed to have written to her parents during her 
journey. These letters are knit together by a dainty 
love story that gives to them a fascination out of the 
ordinary. The book is valuable for its wealth of 
detailed geographical information. 

Mrs. Elliott is also the author of a peace hymn 
known as “All Hail' United States,” published by 
the Chicago Herald, and of several delightful poems 
such as “Mary’s Sons” (written in answer to Kip¬ 
ling's “Sons of Martha”), “Infant King,” and 
others. 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


343 


OSCAR MICHEAUX 

Not alone to the white race within our state has 
been given the privilege of developing our fiction. 
The Black man has also done his share. Two splendid 
novels by Oscar Micheaux (Me-show), a young 
negro from Gregory county, and a graduate of 
Tuskegee Institute, are now widely read. The first 
is his “Conquest,” a charming love story. His latest 
effort is “The Forged Note.” This latter book deals 
with the negro conditions down south. It is a mas¬ 
sive volume of 521 pages, elaborately illustrated. 

Another novel that put in its appearance in 
1915 is “The Boy from Reifel’s Ranch,” by Rever¬ 
end J. S. Ellis, of Conde. It is a snappy story. 

In addition to the Ellis book, we have other re¬ 
cent novels as follows: 

Coursey, 0. W., “The Woman With a Stone 
Heart.” 

Geddes, Herbert, “Just Boys.” 

Putney, Effie, “The Little Ally.” 

Sabin, Edwin, (1922) “White Blood and Red.” 

Other good novels by South Dakotans—most of 
them old, but delightful reading—are: 

Atwater, Rev. W. D., “Told Again.” 

Burns, John H. “Memoirs of a Cow Pony.” 

Carruth, Hayden, “Adventures of Jones,” 
“Track’s End,” “Voyage of the Rattletrap.” Ca- 
ruth is also the author of numerous short stories, 
and he is now writing the “Postcript” for the 
Woman’s Home Companion. “Track’s End” is a . 
South Dakota story, covering the Big Blizzard, Etc. 


344 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Douglas, Mrs., “Beryl, or the Silent Partner.” 

, Dye, Eva, “The Conquest.” (This is the same 
title adopted by the negro, Oscar Micheaux, for his 
first book.) 

Gates, Eleanor, “The Biography of a Prairie 
Girl,” “The Plow Woman.” 

Gilman, Stella, “That Dakota Girl,” “A Gumbo 
Lily.” 

McNamara, Harry, “From Yellowstone to 
Yankton,” “Soldier and Savage,” “My Adventures 
to the Moon.” 

Pierce, Gov. G. A., “A Dangerous Woman.” 

Rodee, H. A., “The Prairie Patriot.” 

Stubbins, Thomas A., “The Patriot.” 

Stone, Matilda Woods, “Every Man His 
Chance.” 

In addition to the foregoing are two old books 
which appeared in 1875 and 1878, respectively: 
“America’s Wonderland,” and “The Coming Em¬ 
pire,” by Horatio N. Maguire. They deal with con¬ 
ditions surrounding the Black Hills and on into the 
Yellowstone Park. They are in reality historical 
prophecies concerning the possibilities of that vast 
region, most of which has since come true. 

A few people in our state have earned recogni¬ 
tion as magazine writers. One of these is Clate 
Tinan, of the Kimball Graphic. Another is Mrs. S. 
Surbeck, of Rapid City. Coupled with her is Mrs. 
Stella H. Catlin, of Dell Rapids. She has written 
some charming magazine articles—chief among 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


345 


which is “Over The Top” (Physical Culture, 1919). 

Doane Robinson has also produced some good 
articles, and Stewart Edward White has risen to 
first place in this line of literary work. 

Kenneth Harris has added literary glory to the 
state by his numerous articles in the Saturday Eve¬ 
ning Post. 

Cyril G. Hopkins (See Agriculture) is the 
author of numerous pamphlets and magazine 
articles. 

Two poets—Robert Carr and Badger Clark— 
have both gained wide fame as magazine writers. 


HISTORIANS 

No literature of any state could be complete 
without making suitable mention of its historians. 
They divide themeslves naturally into two classes: 
Historians proper, and Biographers. 

1.—Historians: In the early years of the 
present century, Mose K. Armstrong published an 
elaborate history of South Dakota Territorial days. 
It is a massive volume, beautifully illustrated, and 
considered very accurate by competent critics. Two 
other small volumes also appeared: one by G. A. 
Bachelder and one by James Foster. Numerous 
other small books and pamphlets appeared, giving 
mostly the history of some important event, or of 
some particular section of the state, but nothing 
definite and general in its character was done until 
Hon. Doane Robinson, our state historian, brought 
out his “History of South Dakota from its Earliest 




346 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Times,” in 1900. The law of the state was promptly 
changed and an examination in South Dakota 
history, as well as U. S. history, was demanded of 
eighth grade graduates and of applicants for 
teachers’ certificates. A course in South Dakota 
history was inserted in the state Course of Study for 
common schools. Robinson’s book was made the text 
for practically the whole state. Renewed interest in 
our state history promptly followed. In 1904, Rob¬ 
inson’s “Complete History of South Dakota” (2 vol¬ 
umes) appeared. This was followed in 1905 by his 
“Brief History of South Dakota.” In 1907, Prof. 
R. F. Kerr revised Robinson’s “History of South 
Dakota From Its Earliest Times,” and the Educa¬ 
tor Supply Co., of Mitchell, brought out a new edi¬ 
tion of it. However, in 1912, Frank L. Ransom 
published a new school history of South Dakota, 
called “The Sunshine State.” 

Subsequent to these efforts, Hon George Kings¬ 
bury, of Yankton, and Professor G. M. Smith, of 
Vermillion, in 1915, placed upon the market an elab¬ 
orate five-volume history of the state. The first 
three volumes, covering the territorial history of 
the commonwealth, were written by Kingsbury; the 
third volume, covering our state history, was writ¬ 
ten by Smith, while the last two volumes containing 
only biographies, were contributed. This is by far 
the most complete and authentic history of the state 
that has appeared to date. 

In 1917, Dr. Willis E. Johnson published his 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


347 


“South Dakota, a Republic of Friends,” which is 
used as a school history. 

Effie Putney is the author of a delightful 
volume of historic stories entitled “In the South Da¬ 
kota Country,” which appeared in 1922. 

Another delightful and accurate historical work 
is “The Trail of the Loup,” by President H. W. 
Foght. It deals with the pioneer history of central 
Nebraska from early days down to 1900. 

In addition to these histories, the history of 
every church and religious denomination operating 
in the state, has been written by some prominent 
member of each particular organization. It is useless 
to enumerate these. Copies of each of them are on 
file in the Department of History where access to 
them may be had at any time by interested parties 

A unique book along historical lines is one en¬ 
titled, “The Political and Sectional Influence of the 
Public Lands,” by Raynor A. Wellington, assistant 
professor of History, University of South Dakota. 
Although it does not pertain to the public lands of 
South Dakota, but is confined to the national domain, 
from 1828 to 1842, it is neverthless a valuable pro¬ 
duction by a South Dakota author—showing as it 
does, the most painstaking research. It is a scholarly 
volume, and proves almost beyond belief the part 
played by the public lands in the national elections 
of that period. 

Attorney Charles DeLand, of Pierre, has earned 
prominent mention as an historical writer of certain 
expeditions, and of special events. His contributions 


348 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


to the state Historical Reports are among the best 
productions of the kind. His “Errors in the Trial of 
Jesus/' is studiously historical in its character. (See 
Novelists). 

For vital sectional, or regional histories, the 
following are valuable productions: 

“Once Their Home" from the pen of Mrs. 
Francis Chamberlain Holley, in 1892, is a fine 
history of the earliest scattered Dakota pioneers. 

The Reverend Peter Rosen, in 1895, brought 
out a history of the Black Hills in story form, 
centered about “Pa-Ha-Sap-Pah." 

For a complete history of the Black Hills—one 
written in classical English with the most pleasing 
exactness—Mrs. Annie D. Tallent's “Black Hills, or 
Last Hunting Grounds of the Dakotahs," is in a 
class by itself. This is by far the best history of that 
eventful region that has ever been written. Mrs. 
Tallant was the first white woman in the Black Hills. 
She kept accurate notes on their development, be¬ 
came the first superintendent of schools in Penning¬ 
ton county, and wrote her history after she was 
seventy years of age. It is beautifully illustrated. 

“Forty Years Prospecting and Mining in the 
Black Hills," by Frank Hebert (1921), is the best 
volume extant on Black Hills Indian, Road Agent, 
Bear, Mountain Lion, and Ghost stories. It is no 
doubt the truest account ever published of early 
Black Hills' days. 

“The Black Hills Illustrated" is a charming 
volume gptten out by George P. Baldwin, under the 



PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


349 


direction of the Black Hills Mining Association. 

“The Booster Nugget/’ gotten out by the Class 
of 1912 of the Lead high school, is also a valuable 
Black Hills contribution. 

Two volumes of “Holiday Greetings,” dealing 
with the Black Hills, have been published by the 
Rapid City Daily Journal. 

Attorney N. J. Dunham, of Mitchell, has 
written a history of Jerauld County. Likewise, D. 
R. Bailey has written one of Minnehaha county. 
General Conklin has written one of Clark county, 
but it has never been published except in newspaper 
form. 

A “History of the French Revolution,” in two 
volumes, is being prepared by Dr. Carl Christol, of 
the State University. He is also the author of: 

(1) “The Moniteur and Other Sources,” a 
Critical History of the Sources of the French Revo¬ 
lution. Published in the University of Nebraska 
Bulletins, C. Series VII. 

(2) “Der Vierte August 1789.” Inaugural— 
Dissertation zur Erlangung der Doctorwuerde— 
Genehimgt von der Philosophischen Fakultaet der 
Universitaet zu Berlin. Published by Die Univer- 
sitaets-Buchdruckerei von Gustave Schade, Berlin. 

(3) “The First Revolutionary Step in the 
French Revolution.” Published in the University of 
Nebraska Studies, Vol IX, 1909. 

(4) “The Fourth of August 1789.” Published 
in the University of Nebraska Studies, Vol. VI, 1906. 

(5) “South Dakota.” This article deals with 


350 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 

the history and political institutions of South Da¬ 
kota and covers the section given to South Dakota 
in the Cyclopedia of American Government. The 
three large volumes are edited by Professors 
Andrew C. McLaughlin, of the University of 
Chicago, and Albert Bushnell Hart, of Harvard Uni¬ 
versity. The many contributors were selected from 
the various states. Christol was chosen from South 
Dakota to write the article on this state. 

George E. Crane & Co., of Topeka, Kansas, in 
1889, published a volume entitled “Gleanings by 
the Way,” written by Stewart Sheldon. It gives an 
account of his voyage around Cape Horn, Life in 
Valparaiso, S. A., Adventures in California in 1849, 
Touring Old Mexico, Boat Trip up the Mississippi 

and Ohio rivers, and of his Mission work in 

» 

Missouri, Colorado and Dakota. He is the father of 
Charles M. Sheldon, author of “In His Steps” and 
other prominent works. 

Dean W. J. McMurtry has written a most sub¬ 
stantial volume on the “History of Yankton 
College.” 

Dr. Harold W. Foght, president of the Aber¬ 
deen Normal, is the author of “The True Signifi¬ 
cance of the Norse Discovery of America,” and 
“Outline Studies of American History.” 

0. W. Coursey is the author of a volume entitled 
“History and Geography of the Philippine Islands” 
(1903). This was superceded in 1914 by his 
“Philippines and Filipinos” which embodies the 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 351 

history, the civics, the geography, and the sociol¬ 
ogy, of the Islands. 

“Blocking New Wars” is an able historical work 
by H. S. Houston, an alumnus of our State Univer¬ 
sity. 

A book gotten out in 1920 by the Reese Brothers 
—J. B. and H. B.—entitled “Some Pioneers and 
Pilgrims of the Prairies of South Dakota,” is both 
readible and valuable. It deals largely with the 
development of the settlements of South Dakota. 

2. Biographers: —One of the earliest biogra¬ 
phies to appear in the state, was the “Memoirs of 
William B. Sterling,” by the Honorable Coe I. Craw¬ 
ford. It is a large volume, bound in half leather, 
stamped in gold, and contains a steel-plate engrav¬ 
ing of Mr. Sterling. Over half of the book is 
devoted to Sterling’s speeches; the rest is give.i to 
the speeches that were made in his honor at the time 
of his death. 

Another interesting volume of biography is the 
“Life of Stephen A. Douglas,” by the Honorable 
William Gardner, of Rapid City. Although the book 
is not centered about a South Dakotan, it is, never¬ 
theless, a valuable piece of historical literature from 
the pen of an able South Dakota author. 

Much of Doane Robinson’s two volumes of 
South Dakota history, published by Bowen & Co., 
is given to short biographies. The same thing is 
true in Kingsbury’s history—the last two volumes 
bear on state history, being devoted exclusively to 
biography. 



352 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


In this field, one of the very strongest books 
that has appeared is “Joseph Ward of Dakota.” 
(Founder and first president of Yankton College.) 
It is from the pen of Professor George H. Durand, 
instructor in English at Yankton college. The book 
compels admiration for its choice diction, and it is 
well illustrated throughout, making it a good piece 
of state history. 

Another book of biography is the “Powers— 
Banks Ancestry,” by W. H. Powers, librarian of 
Brookings College,—the same being a genealogy. 

“The Smoked Yank,” by Col. Melvin Grigsby, is 
an auto-biography, covering mainly his experiences 
in the Civil War; his capture and confinement in 
Andersonville prison; his escape, and the terrible 
hardships which he endured while working his way, 
at night, through southern swamps, to get back to 
Sherman’s lines,—a feat he finally accomplished 
just as the war was closing. 

Other biographical works are: “Biography of 
General Beadle,” “Biography of Senator Kitt- 
redge;” and three volumes of “Who’s Who In South 
Dakota,” containing 124 biographies,—all by 0. W. 
Coursey. 


JOURNALISM 

Journalists divide themselves naturally into six 
classes of writers: Political, Religious, Education¬ 
al, Descriptive, Agricultural, General. Some of the 
strongest writers in the state are found wholly in 
the field of journalism. Usually, newspaper men 



PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


353 


are so crowded with work they become careless and 
indifferent to their literary style. However, there 
are, and have been, some notable exceptions among 
our South Dakota journalists. 

1. Political : Our leading political editors 
at the present time are: 

(a) Dailies: 

Day, Charles M., Sioux Falls Daily Argus- 
Leader. 

Elliott, George B. (Employed Editor) for 
S. X. Way, Watertown Public Opinion. 

Hippie, John, Pierre Capital-Journal. 

O’Leary, Dennis, Sioux Falls Daily Press. 

Sanders, John G., Aberdeen Daily Journal. 

Travis, Walter (Employed Editor) for W. 
C. Lusk, Yankton Press & Dakotan. 

(b) Weeklies: 

Cory, Frank J., Sanborn County (Woon¬ 
socket) Herald-Times. 

Danforth, E. S., Dakota (Vermillion) Re¬ 
publican. 

Halladay, J. F., Iroquois Chief. 

Robinson, L. W., Mitchell Gazette. 

Schaber, Robert, Hudsonite. 

Schlosser, George, Wessington Springs Re¬ 
publican. 

Warren, E. H., Spearfish Mail. 

Yule, E. B., Alexandria Herald. 

2. Religious : As a Religious writer, Rev. J. 
A. Derome, associate editor of the Sioux Falls Daily 
Argus-Leader, is making a record for himself. He 


354 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


edits the “Weekly Meditation’' which has appeared 
each Saturday in that paper for several years. These 
are the most learned treatises on the Bible that have 
ever appeared in the state; in fact, they take rank 
with anything of that character that has been pro¬ 
duced throughtout the nation. 

3. Educational : Dean C. M. Young and Prof. 
George M. Smith (both deceased) formerly success¬ 
ive editors of the South Dakota Educator, a monthly 
school journal, are the two men to date who have 
made records for themselves as educational writers. 
Smith is also the author of the “Ethical Mission of 
the State University,” of an educational Address 
on General Beadle, of a “Memorial Address” for 
his friend and co-worker, Young, and of a critique 
on Hauptmann, entitled “Recent German Literary 
Movements.” 

4. Descriptive : For keen, vivid, effective 
Description, one’s mind turns intuitively to Osbon, 
(deceased) formerly editor of the Howard Spirit. 
The following clipping is taken from an old copy 
of the paper: 

WAITING FOR TAPS 

There is not a more pathetic sight than the row of bent, 
gray-haired old men sitting on the veranda of our national 
soldiers’ home waiting for the last bugle call to the muster 
of death. They are not the ones you would have marked, 
could you have seen them five and forty years ago, as the 
idlers of the earth. Bright, alert, quick of step and keen 
of eye, they were the boys you would have chosen to do 
things. And they Sid things—things that brought them to 
this complexion—while their neighbors, who looked the heirs 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


355 


apparent of helpless, hopeless senility, stayed at home and 
stole the millions which make them “our distinguished towns¬ 
men” of today out of the wormy hardtack and measly pork 
they fed to these heroes. 

Thank God, all of us, that Sheridan’s troopers, turning 
back the tide of defeat at Winchester; Meade’s heroes, stand¬ 
ing in the whirlwind of death as solid as the granite walls 
of Little Round Top, and Grant’s gallants, tightening the 
coils of death about the neck of treason at Vicksburg, could 
not look forward and see themselves as we see them today. 
Thank God the future was hidden from him; else the arm 
that bore the starry banner up Lookout’s rugged heights; 
the hand that flashed the saber “from Atlanta to the Sea,” 
would have fallen, palsied at the sickening sight. They 
won a nation and redeemed a race—and saved for themselves 
a few years of cold charity in a semiprison. 

And there they sit, helpless, hopeless misanthropes, the 
milk of human kindness soured by disappointment, racked 
with pain, bent and distorted by disease contracted in swamp 
or prison pen, wrecked—some of them—by vicious habits 
contracted in those four years of unbridled passion. And 
others, almost the saddest of all, who escaped the touch 
of death and disease, who came home pure in heart and 
clean of hand, to find their places filled, themselves out of 
beat with the onward march of progress, and who have 
trailed through life in the rear of the procession unable to 
catch the step. In the sight of men they are failures, but 
before the most high their lives are the pascal lamb sacri¬ 
ficed on freedom’s altar. 

And there they sit and wait—for what? Think of it! 
Put yourself in their place. Life ended, no cheer, no child’s 
prattle in their ears, no love in their lives, no hope, no future, 
no present—only a dim, shadowy past, already forgotten by 
half the world. 

Waiting only for their summons—“Lights out!” that 
low, sad requiem, with a heart-break in every note, falling, 
with increasing frequency on their dull, old ears. 


356 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


5. Agricultural : First place must go to the 
Dakota Farmer, edited and controlled by W. C. 
Allen. The scope and usefulness of this bi-weekly 
Agricultural magazine cannot be fully set forth in 
a book. What it has meant to the development of 
the farming interests of the two Dakotas and Mon¬ 
tana cannot be estimated. 

Paul W. Kieser, editor of the Rural Weekly, 
issued by the State Agricultural College, also de¬ 
serves special mention and compels recognition. He 
is an experienced journalist who is making an im¬ 
pression upon his state. 

6. General : As a general writer on all classes 
of subjects, Wheeler S. Bowen (deceased), former¬ 
ly editor of the Daily Huronite, was a leader. His 
range of information was wide, his diction chaste, 
and his fearlessness in stating his views on all pub¬ 
lic questions was most commendable. 

Recognition must also be accorded to W. R. 
Ronald, of the Mitchell Daily Republican, as a gen¬ 
eral editorial writer. He is a high grade, spirited 
essayist—one who is at home on a multiplicity of 
themes. His learning is broad, his vocabulary is 
complete, and his daily editorials are far above the 
average. 

Although Charles M. Day was classed as a poli¬ 
tical writer, because of his leadership in that field 
of thought, yet he, too, must be recognized as an 
editor who covers the entire field of modern ac¬ 
tivities. His sentences are short and crisp, his 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


357 


words are largely monosyllables, and, he is easy to 
follow and delightful to read. 

Then, too, Mrs. Alice Gossage, of the Rapid 
City Daily Journal, has made a place for herself in 
the general journalistic field of the state. Her edi¬ 
torials are widely quoted and they cover all that is 
good and wholesome. 

In this field of journalism, specific attention 
must also be given to Miss Mildred Yule, of Alex¬ 
andria. She is a graduate of the Pulitzer School of 
Journalism, Columbia University, New York City. 
Her high grade training shows in her work. Her 
special articles have been syndicated and are being 
featured by many of the best papers in the country. 
In 1922 she was made assistant to the agricultural 
editor of the State College, Brookings, S. D. 

Another general editorial writer—one gifted 
\with unusual powers of description—is Hon. Irwin D. 
Aldrich, present state immigration commissioner, 
and formerly editor of the Bigstone Headlight. 
Correlatively, recognition must be given to Hon. 
Charles McCaffree, formerly immigration commis¬ 
sioner of the state, and previous to that editor of 
the Howard Spirit. His booklet on the Black 
Hills is a graphic piece of work unexcelled in the 
literature of the state. One paragraph from it will 
serve to reveal his charming style: 

Highest between the Rockies and the Himalayas, Black 
Hills peaks lift rock crests in intimate greeting to the sun 
and the stars. The Sioux, who held them sacred, said Paha 
(hills) Sapa (black) and they remain Black Hills—though 
undervalued by the name. Purple Mountains is more true 


358 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


for pines and blue spruce and gray granite give the deep 
purple of a ripe plum. A yellow magnet drew the adven¬ 
turous to Black Hills prospects only a short time ago. Rich 
lodes of gold invited the quest of a world’s avarice. The In¬ 
dians bade a forced and sad farewell to the shadowy trails, 
the tumbling streams, where gamy trout still snap the ang¬ 
ler’s fly, the runways to cold springs, where deer yet slake 
their thirst, the sentinel crags guarding canyon depths unlit 
by the sunshine. 

E. H. Willey (deceased) must also be treated 
among the general editorial writers. For nearly a 
half century, he made the Vermillion (Dakota) Re¬ 
publican one of the strongest weekly newspapers 
in the state. Willey was an apprenticed lad. He 
never attended school a day in his life, yet through 
sheer application he became one of the recognized 
literary editors of South Dakota. What could be 
more musical as prose than the following paragraph, 
taken from his lengthy editorial on Senator A. B. 
Kittredge, at the time of the latter’s death in 1910? 

Today he sleeps in the village cemetery of the little New 
Hampshire town of Jaffrey, but his memory will remain as 
enduring as the granite of which are composed the encir¬ 
cling hills that will keep watch above his place of rest. For 
happily, and most surelv, his work in every way was a credit 
to the state of his nativity as well as to that of his adoption, 
and the honor becomes the heritage of the nation. 

Under this head, paragraphers must also be 
considered. To be able to condense an entire essay 
into a paragraph requires an analytic mind with 
unusual powers of deduction. The first writer in 
the state to master this style of journalism was 
John Longstaff, formerly editor of the Huronite. 
Subsequent paragraphers are: J. F. Halladay, of 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


359 


the Iroquois Chief; John Hippie, of the Capital- 
Journal ; and Charles F. Hackett, of the Parker 
New Era. 


SCIENTIFIC WRITERS 

Under the head of Scientific Writers, must 
come our writers of science, proper, in addition to 
our text book authors, musicians, etc. Hundreds 
of valuable pamphlets, bearing on strictly scientific 
themes, have appeared during the past thirty 
years, but we must confine ourselves as far as pos¬ 
sible to a consideration of bound volumes. To 
delve into this phase of our literature merely for 
historical purposes, would necessitate the cataloging 
herein of over 200 valuable scientific pamphlets. 
This would prove impractical for our purpose. 
Again, the able dissertations of the men of science 
who are connected with the faculties of our state 
and denominational institutions of higher educa¬ 
tion, if catalogued, would be interesting, but they 
would be valueless as literature; hence, their omis¬ 
sion. 


GEOLOGY 

The Geology of the state, in addition to the 
government reports, was first written by Professor 
Todd, in bulletin form. His leading works are 
“Boulder Mosaics in Dakota,” and “Moraine of 
South Eastern South Dakota.” Later, the regents 
of education authorized Dr. Cleophas C. O’Harra, 
president of the School of Mines, to go East and col- 




360 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


lect all of the reports on the Geology of the Bad 
Lands that he could find, and to condense these with 
his own investigation, into one paper-bound volume 
at state expense. This was done, and so we have a 
complete record of that interesting region. Dr. 
O’Harra also wrote the “Mineral Wealth of the 
Black Hills,” and gave us a most valuable com¬ 
pendium entitled “O’Harra’s Handbook of the Black 
Hills.” It covers every possible phase of the sub¬ 
ject under 76 separate headings. The book is 
charmingly illustrated with 35 views and with six 
accurate maps. 

List of Bulletins Issued by Our State Geologists 
Bulletin No. 1. A Preliminary Report of the 
Geology of South Dakota, 1894. J. E. Todd. 

Bulletin No. 2. The First and Second Biennial 
Reports on the Geology of South Dakota and accom¬ 
panying papers. 1893-96. J. E. Todd. 

History of the Survey. 

First Biennial Report of the State Geologist. 

Second Biennial Report of the State Geologist. 

Section from Rapid City Westward. 

A Reconnaissance into Northwestern South Dakota. 

The Geology along the B. &* A. R. R. 

Elevations in and about the Black Hills. 

Additional notes on the limits of the Main Artesian 
Basin. 

Exploration of the White River Badlands. 

Bulletin No. 3. Mineral Resources of South 
Dakota, 1900. 

Mineral Wealth of the Black Hills. C. C. O’Harra. 

Mineral Building Material, Fuels and Waters of South 
Dakota. J. E. Todd. 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


361 


Bulletin No. 4. Report of the State Geologist. 
1908. 

Preliminary Report on the Geology of the Northwest- 
Central portion of South Dakota. J. E. Todd. 

Two New Araucarias from the Western Cretaceous. 

C. R. Wieland. 

Preliminary Report on the Flora and Fauna of the 
East part of the Rosebud Reservation, now known as Greg¬ 
ory County. S. R. Jones. 

Drainage in South Dakota. A. B. McDaniel. 

Some Devonian and Silurian Fossils from N. E. Iowa. 
A. L. Haines. 

The State Survey of South Dakota. E. C. Perisho. 
Appendices to J. E. Todd’s Article on the Geology of the 
Northwestern-Central portion of South Dakota. 

Bulletin No. 5. The Geography, Geology and 
Biology of South-central South Dakota. 1912. E. 
C. Perisho and S. S. Visher. 

Bulletin No. 6. The Biology of Harding County. 
1912. S. S. Visher. 

Report of the State Geologist for 1913-14. E. C. Per¬ 
isho. 

Bulletin No. 7. The Scope, Methods and Plans 
of the State Survey 1916. Freeman Ward. 

Bulletin No. 8. The Geography of South Da¬ 
kota. 1919. S. S. Visher 

Report of the State Geologist. 1916-18. 

Bulletin No. 9. The Birds of South Dakota. 
W. H. Over and C. S. Thoms. 

Bulletin No. 10. The Possibilities of Oil and 
Gas in South Dakota. Preliminary Report. 1922. 
R. A. Wilson. 

Bulletin No. 11. Geology of a Portion of the 


362 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Badlands, Freeman Ward and W. C. Toepelman. 

Scientific Bulletins Issued by the State School 

of Mines . 

Bulletin No. 1. Preliminary Report of the Da¬ 
kota School of Mines upon the Geology, Mineral 
Resources and Mills of the Black Hills of Dakota; 
171 pages. 1888. By F. R. Carpenter and H. 0. 
Hoffman. (Out of Print.) 

Bulletin No. 2. Notes on the Geology and Min¬ 
eral Deposits of a Portion of the Southern Black 
Hills; 41 pages. 1899. By C. C. O’Harra and 
A. Forsyth. 

Bulletin No. 3. Cyanide Experiments on the 
Siliceous Ores of the Northern Black Hills, etcetera; 
27 pages. 1900. By A. Forsyth and G. H. Clev¬ 
enger. 

Bulletin No. 4. Two papers: A History of the 
Early Explorations, and of the Progress of Geo¬ 
logical Investigation in the Black Hills Region; and 
A Bibliography of Contributions to the Geology and 
Geography of the Black Hills Region; 88 pages. 
1900. By C. C. O’Harra. (Out of Print.) For later 
and more complete bibliography see Bulletin No. 11. 

Bulletin No. 5. The Cyanide Process in the 
Black Hills of South Dakota; 88 pages. 1902. By 
C. H. Fulton. (Out of Print.) 

Bulletin No. 6. The Mineral Wealth of the 
Black Hills; 88 pages. 1902. By C. C. O’Harra. 
(Out of Print.) 

Bulletin No. 7. Metallurgical Practice in the 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


363 


Black Hills of South Dakota; 63 pages. 1904. By 
C. H. Fulton. 

Bulletin No. 8. The Cement Resources of the 
Black Hills; 55 pages. 1908. By C. C. O’Harra, 
M. F. Coolbaugh, M. A. Ehle, Jr., and C. H. Fulton. 

Bulletin No. 9. The Badlands Formations of 
the Black Hills Region; 152 pages 1910. By C. C. 
0’IIarra. (Out of Print.) See also No. 13. 

Bulletin No. 10. The Minerals of the Black 
Hills; 200 pages. 1914. By Victor Zeigler. (Out 
of Print.) 

Bulletin No. 11. A Bibliography of the Geol¬ 
ogy and Mining Interests of the Black Hills Re¬ 
gion; 225 pages. 1917. By C. C. O’Harra. 

Bulletin No. 12. The Occurrence, Chemistry, 
Metallurgy and Uses of Tungsten with Special Ref¬ 
erence to the Black Hills of South Dakota; 264 
pages. 1918. By J. J. Runner and M. L. Hart¬ 
mann, including a Bibliography of Tungsten by M. 
L. Hartmann. (Out of Print.) 

Bulletin No. 13. The White River Badlands. 
181 pages and 96 plates. 1920. By C. C. O’Harra. 
Price fifty cents and postage. 

MUSIC 

Instrumental 

While the words to vocal music might profitably 
be studied under the head of Poetry, yet musical 
compositions, on the whole, must be considered as 
scientific productions. It would not be feasible to 
list herein all of the instrumental compositions that 
have been produced to date by South Dakota com- 


364 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


posers, for they now number about fifty. Without 
showing partiality, special mention must be made 
of the “First South Dakota Infantry March,” com¬ 
posed by Frank M. Halstead, leader of the South 
Dakota Infantry band, because of the wide recogni¬ 
tion which this composition gained. Then, too, 
Carrie E. Stratton has excelled in sheet music. Her 
“Iroquois Grand March” became a national selec¬ 
tion. Scarcely less popular were her “McKinley's 
Memorial March,” and her “Frolic of the Prairie 
Chickens.” 

However, the state composer who, to date, has 
risen into a field wholly his own, is Dean E. W. 
Grabill, formerly head of the College of Music, Uni¬ 
versity of South Dakota. He lives in music, revels 
in it and radiates it from his whole being. Not only 
has he gained recognition at home, but from Canada 
comes the following sonnet written to him by the 
popular Canadian poet, J. D. Logan, and published 
by the latter in his volume of poems: 

DULCET MELODIST 

(To Ethelbert Warren Grabill—the most poetic interpreter in America of 

Chopin, Grieg, and MacDowell.) 

DULCET MELODIST whose fingers kiss 
The longing keys with fondest tenderness, 

What soft allurement lies in thy caress 

That they should answer with the thoughts we miss 

Of love ineffable? Oh, tell me this:— 

How thou dost draw from seeming nothingness 
The unheard love—complaints that burn and bless 
And break the heart with bitterest tears of bliss? 

Thou utterest soul-throbs Chopin made us hear, 

As if he wept again upon the keys, 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


365 


MacDowell’s plaint and Grieg’s immortal Peer 
Who never knew the loneliness of peace:— 

Ah, must thine own heart burn with love like these, 
When thou canst bring their sweetest art so near! 

Dean Grabill’s piano compositions include a 
number of mazurkas, waltzes, a romance, a set of 
album leaves, and a set of Cuban Voudou dances. 
He has composed a large number of songs for solo 
voices, including: 

Serenade (Love Wakes and Weeps), words by 
Sir Walter Scott. 

A Song of Love, words by Sidney Lanier. 

Du bist wie eine Blume, words by Hiene. 

Come Not When I am Dead, words by Tenny¬ 
son. 

Visitors, words by Helen May Whitney. 

Lullaby, to original words. 

Besides these, the Dean was specially commis¬ 
sioned by Toronto friends of J. K. Bathrust, the 
Canadian poet, to compose the music to the latter’s 
“Love’s Pilgrim,” a poem of singular beauty and 
power. Grabill has also written Incidental Music 
(songs and orchestra) to Goldsmith’s “She Stoops 
To Conquer,” and some works for chorus, including 
“My Misery,” to original words in negro dialect. 

Stanley Vermilyea, of Mitchell, has composed 
some inspiring instrumental selections. He has also 
written both the words and the music for several 
choice melodies. 

Another brilliant young composer from South 
Dakota, who has fought his way to the top and is 
now identified with the American Conservatory of 


366 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Music in Chicago, is Clarence Loomis. 

Vocal 

Our vocal selections that have gained recog¬ 
nition and for which music has been written are 
not numerous. “My Pilot,” by Rolin J. Wells (see 
poets) has been set to music; has had a good sale, 
and has been incorporated in a church hymnal. 

J. W. Cotes, of Conde, wrote “The Sunshine 
State,” the music for which was composed by Dean 
Grabill. In 1922 he followed it with another, “The 
Trinity.” 

William Marble, Sr., of Alexandria, is the 
author of several delightful songs that were set to 
music and published in 1921- , 22. 

Miss Mabel Richardson, librarian of the Uni¬ 
versity of South Dakota, is the author of the “Alma 
Mater” song adopted by the institution. The music 
for it was composed by Dr. W. R. Colton, present 
Dean of the School of Music, U. S. D. This song 
won a $25 prize. 

One of our charming composers is Joseph A. 
Dvorak, editor of the Tabor Independent. He was 
foreign born, in what is now Cechoslovakia, but 
came to America at six years of age. He is the 
author of “A History of the Bohemian People,” and 
of several delightful songs, the music for which he 
himself composed. His music is rollicking and spir¬ 
ited and reflects great credit on our young composer. 

Prof. Leslie R. Putnam, dean of the School of 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


367 


Music, Dakota Wesleyan University, has written a 
number of church songs with their harmonies. They 
are delicate in conception, charming in rhythm and 
pleasing in rendition. 



Dr. E. K. Hillbrand 

Biographical —Born, Kansas City, Kan., April 29, 1894. 
Educated, Kansas City public schools and Belleville High 
School. Received A. B. degree from Kansas Wesleyan Univer¬ 
sity; A. M. Northwestern University and Ph. D. degree from 
Northwestern University. Fellow in Education at North¬ 
western, also Research Fellow in Education at University 
of Chicago. In addition has done graduate research work 
at Iowa State University and Columbia University, New 
York City. Member Phi Delta Kappa, national educational 
fraternity; Phi Mu Alpha, national music fraternity; Amer¬ 
ican Association for the Advancement of Science; National 
Society for the Study of Education; Mitchell Kiwanis Club 
and El Riad Shrine. Married Miss Ruth Alice Cook, Beloit, 
Kansas, June 15, 1922, and spent summer of 1922 in Europe 
in travel and study. At present beginning third year as 
Professor and Head of Department of Education at Dakota 
Wesleyan University. 




DR. E. K. HILLBRAND 


The most prolific of our younger composers is 
Dr. E. K. Hillbrand, Professor and Head of the 
Department of Education, Dakota Wesleyan Uni¬ 
versity. He is the author and the composer of 
twenty spirited songs—all of which are melodious 
refreshing. 

Not content with musical composition, Dr. Hill¬ 
brand has for some j^ears been interested in the 
field of psychology of music, and has in his posses¬ 
sion the most complete library in existence on the 
subject. 

One of his hobbies is educational research in 
music and this interest has resulted in the follow¬ 
ing works: “Survey of Musical Talent in Public 
School Systems,” “Measuring Ability in Sight Sing¬ 
ing,” Educational Research in Music and Future 
Problems,” “A Standardized Educational Scale For 
Measuring Sight Singing Ability in the Fourth, 
Fifth, and Sixth Grades.” For this latter work Dr. 
Hillbrand composed a group of songs for the child 
voice, which are included in this scale. 

At the present time Dr. Hillbrand is working 
on an educational music scale for measuring silent 
sight reading in vocal music by the group method. 
This scale will include a group of songs of Dr. Hill- 
brand’s own composition suited to the child-voice 
of the fourth, fifth and sixth grades of the public 
schools. 



President Willis E. Johnson 
Biographical —Born, Delano, Minn., 1869. Educated, 
State Normal, St. Cloud, Minn., Carleton College, Illinois 
Wesleyan and University of Chicago. Teacher in Rural, 
Village and City schools; also the St. Cloud normal and 
the one at Mayville, N. D. Vice-President, Northern Nor¬ 
mal and Industrial School, Aberdeen, S. D., eleven years; 
President State Normal and Industrial school at Ellendale, 
N. D., one year; President, Aberdeen, S. D. normal five years. 
President South Dakota State College of Agriculture and 
Mechanical Arts over three years. Member, Editorial Staff, 
“Encyclopedia for Ready Reference.” Author of Supplement 
to Frye’s Advanced Geography; of Mathematical Geography” 
and of “South Dakota, A Republic of Friends;” and a Civics, 
entitled, “State and Nation”; also joint author with F. L. 
Ransom of a “Community Civics.” He wrote both the words 
and the music to the song, “South Dakota,” and compiled 
the song book entitled, “Let’s Sing.” Married Miss Eunice 
Stanley, April 2, 1890. Has five sons. President of South 
Dakota Education Association for 1917. 




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Dr. 0. E. Murray 

Biographical —Born, Truro, Cornwall County, England, 
March 25, 1857. Graduated Academy of Olivet College, 1880. 
Came to South Dakota. 1882. Pre-empted near Alexandria. 
Took A. B. degree, Dakota Wesleyan, 1888. Master’s same 
institution, 1890. Received his B. D. degree from Garrett 
Biblical Institute 1891; his Ph. D. from Alleghany College, 
1892. Married Hattie E. Brush, May 4, 1893. Father of 
eight children—four boys and four girls. Charter member 
S. D. M. E. conference. Pastor M. E. church, thirty years. 
Author of three books Founder of the American Patriot 
Union; also editor of ‘‘The Patriot.” Died, April, 1919. 




DR. OLIVER E. MURRAY 


The most prolific song writer and music com¬ 
poser that has become identified with our state is 
the talented Reverend Dr. 0. E. Murray. In ad¬ 
dition to the volumes of lectures which he wrote, 
the circulation of which reached into the thousands, 
he also wrote the words and composed most of the 
music for two volumes of song. These are the 
“Singing Patriot” and “Prayerful Praises.” 

Before Dr. Murray had gotten his household 
goods unpacked when he settled on his claim near 
Alexandria, he was called to that place to sing a 
temperance song for a big rally that was being held 
there. In the absence of his music, he hurriedly 
composed and sang “Goodby, Old Bottle, Goodby,” 
set to the tune of “Goodby, My Lover, Goodby.” 
This inspirational song was afterwards translated 
into four foreign tongues and was sung around the 
world. 

The authentic history of the popular song, en¬ 
titled the “Little Old Sod Shanty On The Claim,” 
which was sung so universally by our early pioneers, 
is taken from the Dakota Farmer, as given by one 
of Dr. Murray's daughters, Miss Gladys. 

“THE LITTLE OLD SOD SHANTY ON THE CLAIM” 

(Copied from the Dakota Farmer, issue of Dec. 15, 1909.) 

TO DAKOTA FARMER: In the November 1st issue of The Dakota 
Farmer, we were interested in the various reproductions and parodies on 
the poem, “Little Old Sod Shanty.” While living upon his pre-emption 
near Alexandria, Dakota Territory, in ’82, my father composed the or¬ 
iginal verses that have been several times printed under the above title. 
His song was soon imitated and parodied, as well as his later popular 
song entitled, “The Little Red School House.” The oldest parody was 


374 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


something like the ones you published, only it was entitled "The Little 
Old Sod Shanty on the Jim.” It made its appearance some few years 
later than the original verses. 1 enclose the song as composed’ and sung 
by my father, O. E. Murray, P. H. D., in 82, It has several times been 
published during these years by more than a dozen different papers and 
was recited by the author before the Dakota Settler’s Organization in Chi¬ 
cago, twelve years ago. At the farewell to the Cow Boys held in Murdo 
I recited the poem. Whenever it is published the edition of the paper is 
soon exhausted, showing that the people have a desire to retain the 
original copy. 

You are correct in your surmise that there is a song of older origin 
than those you published, and that the original consists of but three 
verses. The last half of the poem was written in ’85. 

Prof. J. A. Ross who was principal of the Woonsocket Schools, Da¬ 
kota Territory, read the verses for the first time and congratulated the 
author as follows: ‘‘Murray, your verses will live; they are certainly a 
Dakota classic.”—Gladys E. Murray, Lyman County, S. D. 

You may sing about the little old log cabin in the lane, 

Or of little German homes across the sea, 

But my little old sod shanty that I built upon my claim 
Has become the dearest spot on earth to me. 

I built it in my poverty upon my prairie claim, 

And after toil it gave me sweetest rest; 

Safely sheltered from the blizzards and all the storms that 
came 

In my little old sod shanty in the west. 


CHORUS: 

It makes a pleasant memory that I shall not forget. 

Of all our western homes it suits me best, 

And often now I wish that I were living in it yet 
In my little old sod shanty in the west. 

We had hungry wolves and coyotes for our nearest neighbors 
then, 

The buffalo and deer supplied our meat; 

And when the black and prowling bear would fall before 
our men, 

We would live like kings upon our game so sweet. 

The only town we knew for miles by prairie dogs was made, 
They yelped and sported ’round our little nest. 

And sometimes they took a tumble before the rifle’s raid, 
And such we thought was sport out in the west. 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


375 


Our path was full of troubles, nor were they little ones, 

For sure, the pioneers were single boys, 

Then every man’s own body-guard was two good shooting 
guns 

With ropes and lariets to use as toys. 

We sometimes hunted down the thief who stole from us a 
horse, 

A little neck-tie party did the rest; 

The morning sun shone grimly as its rays fell on the corpse, 
Near my little old sod shanty in the west. 

The miners built their cabins, the ranchers lived in “shacks,” 
And some were forced to make the log stockade, 

For then the wildest red skins came down like wolves in 
packs, 

To drive us from the home that we had made. 

Ah! Those were times that tried men’s souls and sifted out 
the chaff. 

Each fight would mark the men we called the best, 
And some proved weak and left us, it must be more than 
half; 

The others held their shanties in the west. 

But all things change; those stirring times have long since 
passed away; 

And churches, schools and cities followed on, 

Along the trail we tracked with blood back in that early day, 
And others hold the fields that we have won. 

But we have saved a little cash so we will not complain 
Though others of our fruits shall reap the best; 

But we hope they will remember not to treat us with disdain, 
Because we built the shanties in the west. 


376 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Where once the cabin graced the gulch or shanties marked 
the plain, 

With signs of wealth the home and mansions rise, 

The wigwam, too, has passed away, the braves are with the 
slain 

In happy hunting grounds beyond the skies. 

When ’round our winter fires we meet, not made of twisted 
hay, 

We recount the past before we seek our rest; 

The stories of our struggles then will hush the children’s 
play, 

And their dreams will be of shanties in the west. 


One of the best hymns which Murray composed 
is “Mizpah.” It is unfortunate that the plates to 
this song have become lost; otherwise the music to 
it, which is most charming, would have been em¬ 
bodied herein. It was also published in sheet music 
and over a million copies were sold. 

MIZPAH 

0 blessed star of friendship, that lights the holy page 
Of love, the bond and token for childhood, youth and age; 
When distance may divide us by mountain, vale and sea, 
Then, 0 may Jehovah keep watch ’tween me and thee. 

REFRAIN: 

Mizpah, bond of love to ms 

Truth and friendship shine as stars in thee 

When absent from each other 

By mountain, vale and sea; 

Then, 0 may Jehovah keep watch ’tween me and thee. 



PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


377 


When life is full of sunshine, with days of love and light; 
When all is sweet and smiling and restful is each night, 
Wherever you may wander in thought and fancy free, 
Then, O may Jehovah keep watch ’tween me and thee. 

But when the darkness hovers, and days of doubt shall come; 
Or when the heart is longing for love and peace and home; 
Or when shall come temptation, or soul-felt agony; 

Then, O may Jehovah keep watch ’tween me and thee. 

But in the night of sorrow, when stars of joy have set, 

And death has made the heart ache, while eyes with tears 
are wet; 

Then, God shall guard our treasures on land or on the sea; 
And, O may Jehovah keep watch ’tween me and thee. 


Another song of Murray’s that was sung across 
the continent and nearly became a national hymn, 
was his “Little Red School House,” sung to the tune 
of the “Old Oaken Bucket.” 

THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL HOUSE 

How well I remember the little red school house, 

Where shouting boys gathered from sport and from play, 
Where girls from the meadow would come with their flowers, 
Where mingled in sunshine all nature was gay. 

The walks in the woodland where chattered the squirrel 
These pictures of mem’ry bring tears to my eye. 

refrain : 

I love the old school house 
The dear little school house, 

I love the red school house, 

And will till I die. 



378 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


The little red school house is tied to our heart strings; 

The teachers that taught us have passed on before! 

And some of the scholars that started out with us 
Have gone to the school on the bright, golden shore. 

And soon we shall enter the high school of heaven, 

For time like an angel wing brushes us by. 

* * 

The little red school house, how can ^e forget it, 

The teacher, the Bible, the desk and the flowers; 

The things that are dearest and now seem the nearest 
Are those that we loved in our earliest hours. 

Be palsied the hand that would touch the red school house 
Be palsied the tongue that against it would cry. 

Dr. Murray’s song, entitled “Old Glory,” sung 
by him and Mrs. Murray for President McKinley 
in his home at Canton, Ohio, and pronounced by the 
president as one of the finest tributes to Old Glory 
that he had ever heard, was published in the “Sing¬ 
ing Patriot.” It is set to rich music that yields 
delightfully to duet, quartet, or chorus work. 

OLD GLORY 

May “Old Glory” wave above us, 

That .our hero brothers bore, 

May no rival flutter near it 

In our land from shore to shore; 

And if ever it shall lead us 
Into dreaded battle strife, 

We will rally ’round the standard, 

Though it costs most precious life. 



PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


379 


There is safety in “Old Glory/’ 

In its every silken fold; 

There is meaning in it richer 
Than the brightest glint of gold. 
There is light upon our banner 
That outshines the twinkling stars 
There is blood and water mingled 
In its doubled-colored bars. 

There is sorrow in “Old Glory,” 

But our triumphs are its crown 
As the symbol of our freedom, 

It has Von untold renown; 

Where it sways upon the flagstaff, 

If our vision were more clear 
We might see the soldier spirits 
’Round “Old Glory” drawing near. 


MONEY 

Our money problem has been vividly set forth 
by Hon. H. L. Loucks in his “New Monetary Sys¬ 
tem/’ A companion book is his “Government Own¬ 
ership of Railroads and Telegraph.” 


RELIGION 

In addition to the “Weekly Meditations” (see 
Journalists), by Rev. J. A. Derome, consideration 
must also be given to that class of religious writ¬ 
ings which have been preserved in book form. As 
was stated under the head of “Historians,” we can¬ 
not give special thought to the able religious essays 
and kindred material that have appeared during 
the past thirty-five years. 




380 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


We have from the pen of Dr. Samuel Weir, 
who for seven years was a member of the faculty 
of Dakota Wesleyan University, a substantial vol¬ 
ume along religious lines, entitled “Christianity as 
a Factor in Civilization.” 

The inaugural address of Bishop Thomas 
Nicholson as president of Dakota Wesleyan, entitled 
“The Necessity for the Christian College,” has also 
been issued in book form. 

“A Jewish Chaplain in France” is the title of 
a meritorious volume which issued from press in 
1921. It was written by Rabbi Lee Levinger, M. A., 
executive director Young Men’s Hebrew association, 
New York City, who lived for several years in Mit¬ 
chell. He was a First Lieutenant and Chaplain in 
the U. S. army, during the recent war. The volume 
is tastefully written and is a creditable eulogy of 
the part taken by the Jews in helping to win the 
World War. 

A “Handbook of Church Advertising” by Fran¬ 
cis H. Case, is the most unique volume of its kind 
in existence. It covers the whole range of the sub¬ 
ject, and is crowded with practical advice to min¬ 
isters of the gospel concerning legitimate advertis¬ 
ing. Case affirms that churches must advertise 
their wares the same as other institutions, if they 
are to exist, and then declares: “This is no day for 
new wine in old bottles. A new life demands a fit¬ 
ting policy by the church.” 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 381 

O. W. Coursey is the author of a volume en¬ 
titled “Three Jewish Martyrs”—John the Baptist, 
Jesus the Reformer, and Paul the Apostle; also of 
ff Just a Friend,” dealing with both the Old and 
the New Testaments. 

F. B. Oxtoby, D. D., Huron College faculty, is 
the author of a learned volume on “Making the 
Bible Real.” It is a choice book from the presses of 

Revell. 

Four books from the facile pen of Dr. George 
Shannon McCune, president of Huron College, are 
a valuable addition to the sacred literature of our 
state. They are: “Character of Jesus,” “Life of 
Paul,” “Life of Peter,” and “The Revelation.” 

Seven sermons under the title of “The Alabas¬ 
ter Box,” by the Reverend Dr. H. S. Wilkinson (M. 
E.) is a choice little volume, deeply spiritual, and 
filled with inspiration. 

Under novelists may be found listed four relig¬ 
ious novels from the pen of the Reverend J. E. 
Norvell. 

“A Handbook for Sunday School Workers,” by 
Dr. W. B. Olmstead, formerly president of Wessing- 
ton Springs Junior College, has already gone to the 
ninth edition. It is an unusual treatise on the Scrip¬ 
tures—an extraordinary book. In it this able au¬ 
thor has classified the Bible under fourteen heads, 
making it exceptionally advantageous for study. 

Three of the five books by Dr. Craig Thoms, 
under “Sociology,” are also religious productions. 
These are: “The Essentials of Christianity,” “The 
Bible Message for Modern Manhood,” and “The 
Battle of the Prophets.” 



Dr. Craig S. Thoms 


Biographical —Born on farm near Elgin, Illinois, Decem¬ 
ber 20, 1860. Educated, rural schools; also public schools 
at Elgin and Batavia. Took preparatory course at old Chi¬ 
cago University; junior and senior years at Northwestern 
University (B. A. 1888). Later, Master’s degree also. Com¬ 
pleted Theological course Morgan Park Theological Semin¬ 
ary, 1891; Ph. D., Shurtleff College, 1902. Pastor, Baptist 
church, Morris, Ill., 1891-’95; Forest Avenue Baptist church, 
Des Moines, 1895-1900; First Baptist church, Vermillion, S. 
D. 1900-T4; First Baptist church, Moline, Illinois, July 1, 
1914-September 1, 1915; head of the department of Ap¬ 
plied Sociology, University of South Dakota, September, 
1915, to date. Married Effie Walker, of Evanston, Illinois, 
July 7. 1892. Spent one summer (1906) abroad. Author of 
five volumes. 


SOCIOLOGY 


DR CRAIG S. THOMS 

The most prolific writer we have along Soci¬ 
ological lines—one who might also be classed as a 
religious writer—is Dr. Craig S. Thoms, head of 
the department of Applied Sociology, University of 
South Dakota. In his lecture work he has taken 
time to write. Five books on Sociology, from his 
pen, attest his mastery of the subject. 

His first book, “The Bible Message for Modern 
Manhood/’ appeared in 1912. It was splendidly re¬ 
ceived by the public. Its “message” was universal 
and people bought it generously. 

Two years later “The Workingman’s Christ” 
was placed on the market. Here was another genu¬ 
ine message for the dinnerpail man—the fellow who 
earns his living in the sweat of his brow. It was 
apt, practical, forceful, good. In it, the relation of 
the workingman to the church was ably set forth. 

In his “Essentials of Christianity,” which was 
published in 1919, he clearly set forth what he 
thought to be the fundamental requisites of a Chris¬ 
tian—a practical follower of Christ. Undoubtedly 
his choice dedication of the volume reveals quite as 
fully as does the text the authors conception of 
real “essentials.” He says: “To the Builders of 
Tomorrow, whose Christianity must be Simple, 
Spiritual, and Brotherly.” 

His two last books (1922) are “Social Impera¬ 
tives” and “The Battle of the Prophets.” 




384 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


“The Public Schools—1000 Years Hence” is a 
valuable pamphlet along both sociological as well 
as educational lines, by H. Jonas Peterson. 

Dr. Amelia A. Whitefield has given us a choice 
volume on this theme, entitled “As It Might Be.” 

Another volume, sociological in its character, 
is one by Helen Marie Bennett, entitled “The Col¬ 
lege Girl—Her Place in the Business World.” 

Rev. Charles S. Lyles has published “Three 
Things Every Boy Must Have” which should be read 
by every parent. It set forth the “boy problem” in 
an extraordinary way. 

Dean F. T. Stockton, College of Arts and Sci¬ 
ences, University of South Dakota, has also pro¬ 
duced two compact volumes along sociological lines, 
entitled “The Closed Shop in American Trade Uni¬ 
ons” (1911) and “The International Molders’ Union 
of North America” (1922). He has, in addition 
thereto, written numerous magazine articles on La¬ 
bor, Taxation, and Marketing. 

“Ten Articles of a South Dakota Creed,” by 
Dr. Harry Morehouse Gage, formerly president of 
Huron College, but now president of Coe College, 
Cedar Rapids, Iowa, might profitably be committed 
to memory: 

GAGE’S CREED 

We believe in South Dakota, in her exhilarating air and 
bright sunshine, in her health-giving climate, and in the 
beauty of her prairies, hills, flowers and trees. 

We believe in the fertility of South Dakota’s soil and in 
the wealth of her mines and forests! 

We believe that the splendid youth of South Dakota fore- 



PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


385 


tells achievements in maturity which will outreach the 
prophecies of any living 1 man. 

We believe that South Dakota’s lands will bring forth 
larger and better harvests and that her grasses and grains 
will fatten better cattle and hogs and horses than are known 
to the people of today. 

We believe in the civilization of South Dakota, in the 
sum-total of the institutions of the state which are the or¬ 
ganized solutions given by her wisest men and women to 
the problems of human life in a growing western commun¬ 
ity. 

We believe that the light of the best Christian civiliza¬ 
tion is growing brighter in South Dakota and that, with in¬ 
creasing wisdom and experience, institutions will be im¬ 
proved and ever more wisely adapted to solve the problems 
and to meet the needs of the people. 

We believe that South Dakota’s men and women are 
the real wealth of the state and that the unrealized possi¬ 
bilities of boys and girls are the only guarantee of increased 
material riches and more serviceable social and political in¬ 
stitutions. 

We believe that the statesmanship and practical Christ¬ 
ianity which alone can realize the true future greatness of 
South Dakota enjoins the care and culture of boys and girls, 
the refinement of their ideals, the exaltation of their am¬ 
bitions, the strengthening of their desires to reach the upper 
levels of human experience, and the multiplication of their 
wants for those goods which contribute to the noblest intel¬ 
lectual, aesthetic and moral life. 

We believe that the making of a better type of men and 
women is antecedent to the problems of increasing the fer¬ 
tility of South Dakota’s soil, bettering the breed of cattle, 
and developing more efficient social and political institutions; 
that without the enrichment of human nature itself there is 
no vision of better spiritual and material conditions of hu¬ 
man life and no impulse adequate to invent and create the 
instruments necessary to realize the higher life, and no de- 


386 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


sire to use such instrument even if they should be created by 
an act of Providence or by a few exceptionally gifted and 
cultured individuals. 

We believe that the public schools and Sunday schools, 
the normal schools and colleges of South Dakota are open 
doors through which youth may pass into possession of the 
rich treasure houses of the future; and that these educa¬ 
tional institutions are better fitted to serve South Dakota’s 
boys and girls than institutions in other states which are 
unacquainted with South Dakota’s life and problems. 

Another Creed that is worthy of preservation 
in our state literature is one by Hon. Fred Shaw, 
at present state superintendent of Public Instruc¬ 
tion, entitled: 

“A SOUTH DAKOTAN’S CREED” 

I BELIEVE in South Dakota, in the fertility of her 
soil, the warmth of her sunshine, and the nurturing tender¬ 
ness of her winter snows; I believe in the simple beauty of 
her rolling prairies and the more pretentious splendor of her 
western hills. I believe in her government, and her institu¬ 
tions of home and church and school. I believe in the sturdy, 
intelligent manhood of her sons, and the chaste womanhood 
of her daughters; the hundred-percent Americanism of her 
whole people. I believe that under the skies of South Dakota 
will continue to grow and prosper an intelligent, patriotic 
and God-fearing people amply able to work out and solve 
the perplexing problems of the future as they have those 
of the past. I believe that as the bright noonday sun is 
only the fulfillment of the morning prophecy of its dawning 
splendor, so the accomplishments of our State today are the 
monuments of the hardy pioneers of yesterday. I believe 
that as the gorgeous tints of the sunset skies predict the 
coming of a bright tomorrow, the proud record and accom¬ 
plishments of South Dakota surely point to a State whose 
star shall outshine all others in the Flag of our Country. 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


387 


TEXT BOOK AUTHORS 

AGRICULTURE 

While Eastern men have been preparing texts 
along the line of agriculture, to meet the demand 
for this new phase of industrial education, our 
home authors have not been idle. Arthur A. Brig¬ 
ham has brought out his large volume, “The Pro¬ 
gressive Poultry Journal.” Professor C. Larsen 
and W. White have published their “Dairy Tech¬ 
nology and Larsen and McKay are the joint au¬ 
thors of “Principles and Practice of Butter Mak¬ 
ing.” Larsen is also the author of “Exercises in 
Farm Dairying,” and he and White are the joint 
authors of “Farm Dairying.” 

To these have been added three volumes by 
Cyril G. Hopkins, as follows: “Soil Fertility and 
Permanent Agriculture,” “Story of the Soil,” and 
“Soil Fertility Laboratory.” 

Manley Champlin has given us “Lessons in 
Field Management,” and Ruth Wardall has added 
“Study of Foods,” while Henry Erdman has com¬ 
pleted “The Marketing of Whole Milk.” 

AMERICANIZATION 

A splendid volume on Americanization is one 
prepared by M. M. Guhin, state director of Ameri¬ 
canization work, and published by the State. It is 
not only spirited throughout, but par excellence 
from a literary standpoint. Too much cannot be 
said in its favor. Every school and every home 
should have a copy—and use it! 


388 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


ARGUMENTATION 

An unusually comprehensive and practical book 
on “Argumentation and Debate” for use in secon¬ 
dary schools, is a text book by Lyman M. Fort, 
principal of the Mitchell high school. It appeared 
in 1921, and is the only book of its kind by a South 
Dakota author. 

ART 

One of the first books of Art by a state author 
is “Picture Studies from Great Artists,” by Miss 
Lida Williams, of the Aberdeen normal school fac¬ 
ulty. 

The largest volume on this subject is “Master¬ 
pieces of Noted Artists,” by Mary A. Cox, formerly 
instructor in art, Mitchell city schools, but later a 
member of the faculty of the Platteville (Wis.) nor¬ 
mal. It covers all the work outlined in the state 
course of study for the common schools of the state. 

BOOKKEEPING 

A good book on “Farm Accounting” is one by 
Prof. Henry Hendrickson, formerly president of 
Wessington Springs Junior College. It is both sim¬ 
ple and complete, and conforms to the government 
regulations covering income taxes, etc. 

Mrs. Kate Scott is also the author of a book on 
“Farm Accounting,” covering the same field as the 
Hendrickson book, but in a different form, 

BUSINESS 

Another South Dakotan who has gained wide 
recognition as a text-book author is J. S. Knox, the 
noted Chautauqua lecturer. Knox came to Dakota 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


389 


when he was a small boy, with his parents, in 1879. 
They settled in McCook County. Here, he grew to 
manhood, and taught school for one term. 

When twenty-one years of age, Knox entered 
the preparatory department of the State University 
at Vermillion; made his own way for five years 
through that institution and later for two years in 
Drake and Chicago. He is the author of a book 
entitled “Salesmanship and Business Efficiency.” It 
is used as a text in over 400 of the leading colleges, 
normals, high schools and commercial schools of 
the country. The recognition given his book drew 
him to the Eastern Chautauqua platform, where he 
lectures each year on “Business and the Develop¬ 
ment of Leadership” and other kindred subjects. He 
is also president of the “Knox School of Salesman¬ 
ship and Business Efficiency,” located at Cleveland, 
Ohio. 

CHEMISTRY 

Dr. James Henry Shepard, for many years pro¬ 
fessor of Chemistry, State College, Brookings, has 
written the “Elements of Chemistry,” a “Brief 
Course in Chemistry,” “Organic Chemistry” and 
“Inorganic Chemistry,” four texts that are used 
extensively throughout the colleges of the country. 

In addition to Shepard’s books there have been 
prepared a number of able dissertations on this 
branch of science by leading professors of the state. 

CIVICS 

Our Civics writers began with Smith and 
Young who prepared a book entitled “The State and 


390 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Nation/’ This was followed later by the “History 
and Government of South Dakota,” by the same 
^authors. It is one of the standard texts of the state. 

J. A. Ross wrote a brief text on this same 
theme, entitled “Ross’ Civics. It had a large sale. 
Later, Frank L. Ransom re-wrote and enlarged it 
under the title “Civil Government of South Dakota 
and the United States.” The overhauling was so 
complete that it entirely obliterated the Ross re¬ 
semblance, and made a new book of it. This book 
is also used extensively in the schools of the state. 

Under the title, “State and Nation,” President 
Willis E. Johnson, of State College, brought out 
another book on civics which has found a ready 
sale, not only as a text on this subject, but as a book 
for popular reading and for reference, as well. 

In 1922, Johnson and Ransom combined their 
efforts in this line and brought out a “Community 
Civics.” This book is now in use very generally 
among the rural schools of the state. 

ECONOMICS 

A 280-page volume, entitled “Outlines of Ele¬ 
mentary Economics,” by H. J. Davenport, is a credit 
alike—both to the author and to our state. 

ENGLISH 

For textbooks on English, the Aberdeen normal 
seems to domineer the field. Miss May J. Meek, as¬ 
sisted by her brother and a Miss Wilson, has given 
us a fine volume on “English To-Day;” and Prof. 
J. C. Lindberg, of the same faculty, is the author 
of “English Grammar for Secondary Schools.” He 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


391 


is also the author of the “Outlines of English Gram¬ 
mar,” which goes with his text. 

GEOGRAPHY 

The first book of Geography to appear was one 
written by General Beadle in 1888, entitled “Da¬ 
kota, Its Geography and History.” 

The next serious attempt was that of President 
Willis E. Johnson who brought out his “Mathemat¬ 
ical Geography.” Although this book does not 
treat especially on South Dakota, but is general in 
its character, it is, nevertheless, a literary produc¬ 
tion by a South Dakota author, and must be recog¬ 
nized. Johnson also wrote the South Dakota “Sup¬ 
plement” to Frye’s standard geographies. 

A later text on this subject, however, is the 
“Geography of South Dakota,” by Perisho and 
Visher. It is a condensed book, well adapted to 
class-room work. 

Kerr’s “Block Map and Manual of South 
Dakota,” is a handy little pocket compendium of 
the geography of the state. 

A “Pupil’s Workbook in the Geography of 
South Dakota,” by Prof. A. H. Seymour, of the Ab¬ 
erdeen normal, appeared in 1922, and promptly 
went into general use. It has materially altered 
the study of state geography. 

GERMAN 

Under this head comes “Lessons and Views, for 
Study of German by Conversational Method,” by 
Prof. Geo. M. Smith. 


392 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


HISTORY 

(See Historians). 

For this purpose we must get away from gen¬ 
eral historical works and confine ourselves to those 
books that may more properly be termed texts. 

“Brief History of South Dakota,” Doane Rob¬ 
inson. Revised Edition of Robinson’s book, R. F. 
Kerr. 

“Sunshine State,” F. L. Ransom. 

“Republic of Friends,” Willis E. Johnson. 

“In the South Dakota Country,” Effie Putney. 

“History and Geography of the Phillipine Is¬ 
lands,” 0. W. Coursey. 

“Outlines in American History,” Harold W. 
Foght. 

“South Dakota History and Geography” (pam¬ 
phlet), Lynn P. McCain. 

LAW 

The subject of Law will also be treated under 
the subsequent head of “Compilers.” However, for 
our purpose here we must confine ourselves to 
authors of text books on this theme. The man who 
stands near the head of the list is H. E. Willis, of 
Yankton, who has given to us two valuable texts 
on law, “Contracts” and “Damages.” Charles E. 
Deland is the author of “Trial Practice and Appel¬ 
late Procedure,” and of numerous annotated pam¬ 
phlets on special phases of law, such as Corpora¬ 
tions and other kindred themes. 

“School Law Digest,” O. W. Coursey. 

“Honest Caucus Law,” John Holman. 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


393 


“Primary Law,” R. 0. Richards. 

Copyrighted digests of the Richards Primary 
law have been prepared by Judge Dick Haney, by 
Atty. C. C. Caldwell, and by O. W. Coursey. 

LITERATURE 

“Interpretive Forms of Literature,” Emily M. 
Bishop. 

“Interpretative Questions in Literature for 
High School Study,” J. C. Lindberg. 

“Dakota Rhymes,” Wenzlaff and Burleigh. 

“Selections from Browning,” Dr. J. C. Haz- 
zard. 

“Massinger’s Duke of Milan,” F. W. Baldwin. 

“Literature of South Dakota,” O. W. Coursey. 

MATHEMATICS 

Several years ago W. H. H. Phillips, of the 
State College, had published a number of mathe¬ 
matical works, the titles to which are not available 
at this time. 

The “Elements of Algebra” is another old work 
written by George Lilley in 1897. 

Mrs. Kate Scott, of the Spearfish normal, has 
put out some Outlines in Arithmetic in pamphlet 
form. 

A valuable book on the “Essentials of Business 
Arithmetic” is one prepared by Anson H. Bigelow, 
formerly superintendent of the Lead city schools, 
and his commercial teacher, W. A. Arnold. It is an 
extraordinary volume along practical mathematical 
lines. 

A mathematical work that is revolutionizing 


394 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


the teaching of numerical combinations in the 
grades is the Guhin Number Method, by M. M. 
Guhin, formerly superintendent of Brown county. 

Another treastise on mathematics is the “Moad 
Script Number Primer/’ by the Moad Sisters (Altha 
and Ethel). It is for the first grade and is in the 
ladies’ own hand-writing. This was followed in 
1922 by Book II, of the same series, covering the 
number work of the second and the third grades. 

MECHANICS 

“Mechanics for Engineers” is the title of a book 
by C. N. Mills, of the State College, which was pub¬ 
lished in 1917. It is a valuable piece of work, care¬ 
fully done. 

MEDICINE 

Emily M. Bishop has left us “Americanized 
Delsarte Culture,” “Health and Self-Expression,” 
and “Seventy Years Young”—all three being health 
series. 

Dr. Robert L. Murdy, of Aberdeen, is the au¬ 
thor of “The Obstetric Guide.” 

Mrs. Cassie R. Hoyt, of Pierre, has given us 
a charming mother’s book dealing with the care of 
infants, entitled “Le Bonnie” (the baby). 

An old but valuable book is “Microbes and 
Men,” by I. H. Orcut, published in 1894. 

PEDAGOGY 

Prof. George M. Smith and Dr. Clark M. Young 
are the joint-authors of an able treatise on the Ele¬ 
ments of Pedagogy.” 

Dr. W. Franklin Jones has given us a fine text 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


395 


entitled “Principles of Education,” and four valu¬ 
able pamphlets: “The Vitality of Teaching,” “An 
Experimental Critical Study of the Problem of 
Grading and Promotion,” “Concrete Investigation 
of the Material of English Spelling,” and “Handed¬ 
ness in Education.” 

Dr. Willis E. Johnson has had published his 
“Formulation of Standards of Educational Achieve¬ 
ment ” 

Dr. Harold Foght is the author of: “The Amer¬ 
ican Rural School,” “Rural Denmark and Its 
Schools,” “The Rural Teacher and His Work;” also 
of the Educational Surveys of South Dakota, Ala¬ 
bama, Delaware and Saskatchewan (Canada). 

Dr. J. H. Doyle, of Huron, has handed over to 
the public for careful reflection his brilliant “Call 
of Education” which he declares to be “biological 
integrity 

“Child and His Spelling,” by Dean William A. 
Cook, University of South Dakota, is a carefully 
prepared analysis of the spelling problem. 

PSYCHOLOGY 

A neat little volume on psychology, containing 
a wealth of physical illustrations, is Dr. WenzlalFs 
“The Mental Man.” 

SPELLING 

Dr. W. Franklin Jones, after making his ex¬ 
tensive “Concrete Investigation of the Material of 
English Spelling,” covering a period of several 
years, has had published his “Child’s Own Spelling 
Book ” 


396 LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 

“Thirty Contests in Spelling’’ by Dr. Herbert 
Patterson, who for many years was head of the de¬ 
partment of education, Dakota Wesleyan, is the 
first “contest” speller to appear on the market. 

“A Guide to the Teaching of Spelling” is a 
practical book by Prof. Hugh C. Pryor, of the Ab¬ 
erdeen normal. He is also the author of several 
noted pamphlets on the subject of Spelling. 

The “Every-day Speller,” by Dean William A. 
Cook, is a practical text. 

TYPEWRITING 

“The Sentence Method of Touch Typewriting,” 
is the title to a book on this subject, prepared by 
Prof. S. D. van Benthuysen, of Mitchell, and used 
extensively by commercial schools throughout the 
entire Northwest. 

COMPILERS 

In 1877, the “Codes of Dakota” were prepared 
by Peter C. Shannon, Granville Bennett and Bartlett 
Tripp. They were written for the committee by 
General Beadle. Although they are a compilation, 
yet there is much original matter in them. Ten 
years later, E. W. Caldwell and C. H. Price com¬ 
piled the laws of the territory to date. In 1899, 
Grantham’s “Codes of South Dakota” appeared. 
This was followed in 1903 by the “Revised Codes of 
South Dakota,” prepared by Bartlett Tripp, G. C. 
Moody and James Brown. Since then, the Codes 
have been compiled twice—the last time in 1919. 

. The earliest manual covering the practice in 
Justices’ court was prepared by A. B. Melville, of 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


397 


the Beadle county bar. It is entitled “The Dakota 
Justice, Civil and Criminal.” 

Immediately after the close of the Spanish- 
American war, Col. Robert Stewart compiled the 
Military Codes of the state. 

Another compilation is the “Brand Book of 
South Dakota,” prepared by John Hayes, of Fort 
Pierre. 

Still another compilation is a volume entitled 
“A Book of Quotations,” consisting of over 1,200 
excerpts from standard authors, including a few 
South Dakota writers, classified under fifty-eight 
separate headings, prepared by Mrs. Ida P. Ran¬ 
som. The quotations are general in their character, 
and are intended for both home and school use. 

In 1916, O. W. Coursey compiled, and the Edu¬ 
cator Company published, a book of “Winning Ora¬ 
tions,” comprising 34 orations by South Dakotans, 
that had won state and interstate intercollegiate 
oratorical contests. 

“Selections from Browning,” compiled in 1921 
by Dr. J. C. Hazzard. 

TRANSLATORS 

We have seen how charmingly Miss Bagstad 
(see poets) has translated for us “The Sistine Chap¬ 
el,” from the German, and how Dr. Wenzlaff has 
given us “The Chaplet,” from the same tongue. 
Lindberg (see Drama) has handed us “Haakon 
Jarl,” from the Danish; and Miss Louise French, 
professor of Latin, Huron College, has done an ex¬ 
cellent piece of work on “Translation from Sylvia 


:m LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 

of Statius.” To these let us add several translations 
of various texts on Physical Geography and Eng¬ 
lish History, from English into Korean, by Presi¬ 
dent George S. McCune; and we dare not ignore 
one volume on “Lectures in Psychology” by Mc¬ 
Cune, prepared directly in the Korean language, 
from his English notes. 





Prof. J. H. Snoddy 

Biographical —Born, Hendricks County, Ind., June 8, 
1834. Entered Northwestern University (now Butler Uni¬ 
versity) 1854. Enlisted Company H, 11th Indiana Infantry, 
under Lew Wallace, when Civil War broke out. Married 
Charlotte Drake, 1861. Father of twelve children. Supt. 
of schools, Jasper county, Ind., six years. Moved to Hand 
County, S. D. 1882. Founder and only president, South 
Dakota Central Normal School, formerly located at St. 
Lawrence. Principal St. Lawrence schools six years. Su¬ 
perintendent of schools, Hand County, 1899-1902. Died, Oct. 
6, 1908. 


























ESSAYISTS 

PROF. J. H. SNODDY 


Prof. J. H. Snoddy, of St. Lawrence (deceased), 
the founder and only president of the South Dakota 
Central Normal School, was well known among the 
early pioneers as a soldier, scholar, humorist and 
essayist. One of his ablest essays was read before 
the state Educational Association, on “Educational 
Reminiscences.” In it he reviewed separately a 
number of his distinct recollections of his long edu¬ 
cational career. One of these “reminiscences” was 
his early days down in Indiana. This part, only, 
of the essay, is herein preserved: 

From a half century’s memories, softened and hallowed 
by time, thick as song of birds, hum of insects, and odor of 
flowers from a tropical forest, I call up an 
Interrupted Devotional Exercise. 

The teacher was a rigid Calvanist; he could have roasted 
his shins at the ecclesiastical cremation of a modern creed 
revisionist with the stoic pleasure of a Sioux Indian witness¬ 
ing the torture of a tribal enemy. He wore a coat, then 
known as a hunting shirt, with great outside pockets. In 
the morning these pockets fairly bulged with pones of corn 
bread; in the evening they were yawning abysses. Drinking 
water was procured from a bog spring, the vicinity of which 
was the home of numerous frogs and craw-fish of extra¬ 
ordinary size. School opened by the reading of a chapter 
selected for its longevity, followed by a prayer of some forty 
minutes duration, and closed with the same torturing ordeal. 
Had the Humane Society then existed it should have inter¬ 
vened on the grounds of cruelty to animals. Soon short 
changes were made in the prayer which indicated that in the 


402 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


teacher’s opinion eleven of the boys were not elect from 
before the foundation of the world. In the midst of an even¬ 
ing prayer, feeling a commotion in one pocket, and thrusting 
in a hand to explore the mystery, he drew forth a large craw¬ 
fish with a claw fast to a finger. The exploration of the 
other pocket produced a like result and his now open eyes 
beheld a herd of shell fish ambling the floor and a dozen bull¬ 
frogs executing a squaw dance in their midst. Leaping on 
his three-cornered stool in order to reach his arsenal on the 
log joists above, the stool upset, and he landed on his shoul¬ 
ders in a truly acrobatic attitude. He arose, gained his 
wonted composure arranged the non-elect boys in a row, read 
a long chapter, followed by an impassioned exhortation from 
the text, “Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.” He then, 
to the exhaustion of a five-foot limb on each back, played a 
tune which in time found its only equal in the swiftest parts 
of the Devil’s Dream. He concluded this devotional exer¬ 
cise with a prayer in which he congratulated himself that he 
had been in the hand of Him who “tempers the wind to the 
shorn lamb,” a humble instrument in bringing eleven sin¬ 
ners to a realization of their lost condition and invoked the 
blessing on their steadfastness. But the fact that he spent 
the next Saturday with a fish-spear in an effort to exter¬ 
minate the shell-fish and batrachian of the bog manifested 
his want of faith in the efficacy of his prayer. 

When I last visited the scene, the white sand bubbled in 
the bottom of the spring as of yore; but the hollow log curb 
had been replaced by one of brick. For the old drinking 
gourds were dippers of glass, clear as the nectar quaffed 
from their brims; craw-fish swam in the open pools where 
vigilant sun-fish guarded small mounds of pebbles in which 
their eggs were deposited, and frogs leaped from the tremb¬ 
ling banks to gambol in the crystal depths. A slender foot¬ 
bridge meandered the sedge and iris, and a wild duck and 
her ducklings, fearless from human kindness, were receiving 
dainty morsels of food from the hands of a group of school 
children. The house was brick, with shade trees and flower 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


403 


beds without and bookcases, cloak rooms, and works of art 
within. School closed with a few apt quotations earnestly 
spoken, a cheerful song, and a happy evening salutation 
from the teacher. On the hill beyond among monuments of 
marble and granite, I read the names of five of the non-elect 
boys who had given their lives for their country. Nearby 
on a marble slab, gray with moss and age, I read the name 
of the teacher, useful and heroic in his day and generation. 
After placing a flower, and perhaps a tear, on the grave of 
each of my comrades, I also placed one on that of my teach¬ 
er, with a thankful heart that from the unintentional faults 
of such had been evolved methods calculated to enlighten the 
mind, cultivate the taste, and ennoble the heart. 

Another essayist possessed of a charming orig- 
inality and most distinctive style, is Prof. M. M. 
Guhin. His Essay on “One Day of Appreciation In 
America” is a model. A recent Christmas essay of 
his, taking on somewhat the form and features of 
an address, is herein preserved, to show his general 
style: 

CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS 

Christmas, Home and America — God, Family and Coun¬ 
try—Eteimal Fatherhood, Filial Affection and the Brother¬ 
hood of Man, these three words mingle and interwine in the 
devious ways of meditative thought stirred by the approach¬ 
ing Festal Day. 

Christmas is indissolubly associated with Home and all 
its tender memories and these three — Christmas, Home , 
America —stir in the hearts and minds of Americans, the 
deepest and noblest aspirations, and the greatest and grand¬ 
est thoughts. Round them are woven the sweetest strains 
of music; the most touching poems sing their praises; the 
most beautiful pictures portray their glories; the most per¬ 
fect work of the sculptor was inspired by their memories; 


404 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


the most fascinating literature tells their stories; and the 
greatest of our orators take them for themes. 

Christmas! “I have always thought of Christmas time 
—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name origin, 
if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good 
time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only 
time I know of in the long calendar of the year, when men 
and women seem by one consent to open their shutup hearts 
freely and to think of people below them as if they were 
really fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race 
of creatures bound on other journeys.” 

Home! How the word thrills us even in the busy world 
of today with its lingering memories of saintly Mother-love, 
of fatherly protection, of childish joys and myriads of other 
unforgetable associations. Like some wizard’s wand, the 
word banishes all sordid, selfish thoughts, and fills our minds 
with fond remembrances of those who are or, holier still, 
were nearest and dearest to us. 

America! The beckoning land of refuge to the oppressed 
of all nations, the land of opportunity to the poor and lowly, 
the land where we attempt, at least, to practice the doctrine 
of the Brotherhood of Man. America is an inspiration of 
the human soul crying for religious toleration, liberty and 
union in government, peace and justice in the world, square 
dealing and integrity of purpose in every day life and 
optimism and achievement in every act. 

Christmas , Home , America; these three words mean 
more to our people than any others ever coined by the mind 
of man. When I say: “I wish you a Merry Christmas” I 
mean all three. I mean I wish you unquestioned faith, un¬ 
bounded hope and limitless love; the sweet happiness of 
home and all its benign influences; the security and satis¬ 
faction of living in this land of ours under our starry ban¬ 
ner. All this I wish and more; I wish that you and I and 
all of us may cherish more tenderly, love more devotedly, 
support more unflinchingly these three greatest influences 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


405 


in our lives, the trinity on which the Republic rests and 
without which it must fail. This I wish when— 

“I wish you a Merry Christmas.” 

Still another style of essayist is the talented 
Alfred Wenz who for so many years served as As¬ 
sociate Editor of the Dakota Farmer. Wenz’s es¬ 
says are completed wholes, carefully rounded out and 
phrased in the most perfect diction. He has a style 
wholly his own. It is arresting, masterful, pictur¬ 
esque and restful. To read Wenz is to know Life. 

CRITICS 

One of the earliest critiques made in conjunc¬ 
tion with our state literature was that of James 
Realf in the Arena Magazine of May, 1895, on Doane 
Robinson, “A Poet of the Northwest.” This is a 
technical study of Robinson’s verse. The next year, 
Henry W. Austin wrote a critique of Robinson’s 
verse in The Bookman. 

One of the heaviest critiques made within the 
state is by Dr. Tollef B. Thompson, formerly pro¬ 
fessor of Philosophy in our State University at Ver¬ 
million, on Ibsen’s last book, entitled “When We 
Dead Awaken.” This critique is in the form of a 
lecture, delivered by Thompson before the faculty 
and students of Chicago University, and published 
in its entirety in the 1909 summer number of Poet 
Lore. In taking his general bearings preparatory 
to launching upon his theme, Thompson says: 

The painter spreads his ideal conception upon the sur¬ 
face of his canvas. The artistic photographer catches his 
object on the ground glass and transfers it to his plate; but 


406 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


Ibsen, like the sculptor, preserves the original object, the 
ground-glass image and all in crystal form. If the object, 
or rather if the group of moving objects, is true to life, and 
if the focus on the general principle at the other end of the 
frustum is clear cut, we have in the Ibsen drama a piece of 
art which can be purchased for the price of a book, a form 
of art which is capable of infinite expansion, while the def¬ 
initeness of outline may be traced with the point of a pin and 
which is perfect, embodying as much thought and feeling 
as can be crowded into the whole phantasma of moving, talk¬ 
ing objects at the base—aside from the general artistic ef¬ 
fect. 

This brings us to the Epilogue. It was written in 1899, 
and is the last production of the dramatist. Some of you 
doubtless remember with what eager anticipation the read¬ 
ers of Ibsen awaited its publication. Many feared that the 
impaired health and physical decrepitude of the dramatist 
would not permit of his bringing the final work to a success¬ 
ful finish. In the minds of most of these Ibsen was, and 
probably is today, the mystic of the time. “When We Dead 
Awaken’’ promised them something of a revelation. To 
some the words meant, “When the Clouds of Mysficism have 
Cleared Away.” Others looked for an elaboration upon the 
final chapters of the Bible, or an effort at dramatization of 
Swedenborg’s “Heaven and Hell.” This latter class was dis¬ 
appointed and the former remained staring in blank aston¬ 
ishment at the closed covers, not knowing whether to laugh 
or weep. 


Another able critique in our state literature 
is one by Prof. George M. Smith (deceased), of the 
State University, on Hauptmann. Four scattered 
paragraphs, taken from it, can serve only to give 
his masterly style: 

As a boy Hauptmann had come into contact with the 
German aristocracy in his father’s hotel. He had seen them 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


407 


when off their guard and had come to know them as few 
writers did. He had grown up among his Silesian brethren. 
His grandfather had been a participant in the great strikes 
of the forties and over and over again he had heard from 
his lips the story of the wrongs of the peasant classes. He 
had seen them himself, underpaid, starved and stunted until 
his whole soul cried out in a demand for help, nay not so, 
in a demand for justice, for a social state that should be 
ruled by love. 

***** 

But new literary forms were in the air. If the old 
drama had represented groups of men arrayed against each 
other or even social forces in opposition to each other, the 
new drama presented a contest in the human soul itself. 
Here in this holy of holies the struggle was to be fought out 
till victory perched on the banners of virtue or vice. Thus a 
new drama was created unlike anything else in the world’s 
literary history. It was a literary revolution, the introduc¬ 
tion to a new literary epoch. But the later German drama¬ 
tists did not invent this literary method. He only adopted 
it. Tolstoy and Ibsen had already experimented with it. It 
was called by various names, especially by those who did not 
understand it. One of the names was naturalism. It was 
really a form of realism. At least it was an outgrowth of 
it. Realism had sought to picture life as it is. These pic¬ 
tures must be true to reality. But the new method must be 
something more than fidelity to nature. It must give life its 
exact setting in all its details. The new drama was some¬ 
thing more than even naturalism. The new literary guild 
soon discovered that Hauptmann and Sudermann were not 
of them. They had added something else, a something not 
easy to understand without illustration. 

***** 

It was not the intention of the painter to leave you in 
the dissecting room. He has added something else and that 
something is the highest triumph of art. The formula 
changes and instead of Art equals nature minus X it be- 


408 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


comes Art equals nature minus X plus Y. And this is that 
which Hauptmann and his contemporaries added. The mere 
naturalist stops with X. He strives to make the X as small 
as possible. All the canons of his creed command it. There 
is nothing of the Y. With Hauptmann the Y is as large as 
possible. His methods are naturalistic, he strives to be ab¬ 
solutely true to nature, to observe her minutest lights and 
shades. He studies the minutest details of his characters, 
the tricks of speech, the terms of thought, in exact accord¬ 
ance with the living reality. But here the naturalist stops. 
Hauptmann on the contrary pours a soul into this creation. 
Art is more than nature and Hauptmann is the idealist 
striving for a great purpose, the social regeneration of hu¬ 
manity. He is true to the last great ideal of the German 
people. 

***** 

In short we have a literature that is fully in touch with 
the life of the present day, a literature throbbing with the 
hopes and fears of the present, with the ambitions of the 
many, with the spirit of the democracy and with the spirit 
of human progress—a literature that with its new methods 
and its new powers does not fear to enter any field, to assail 
any wrong, and that asks fearlessly for the individual the 
right to live his highest life untrammeled, to develop ac¬ 
cording to the laws of his own being, a literature that re¬ 
fuses to the classes the right to dominate a single human 
soul and to dictate to it. This new literature is full of 
promise and great things may confidently be expected of it. 
If it shall not equal the classic literature of the past it seems 
destined to conquer a field for itself in which it will be the 
supreme master. 

DRAMATISTS 

We must single out those authors who are as¬ 
piring to popularize the drama. Rollin J. Wells 
(See Poets) has dramatized Hagar. Professor J. 
C. Lindberg has translated “Haakon Jarl” from the 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


409 


Danish; and Mrs. Tull (See Novelists) has written 
several delightful plays which have been success¬ 
fully staged—mostly by chautauqua companies 
Joseph Mills Hanson did a strong piece of work on 
“The Pageant of Yankton.” 

SKETCH WRITERS 

There are no rules for the classification of the 
subject matter which might be brought in under the 
head of sketch writing. History, fiction, biography, 
geography and mere description, all yield readily 
to it, in the hands of a sketch artist. We have seen 
that Dr. Wenzlaff made it yield to history and geog¬ 
raphy combined in his “Old Bon Homme” (See 
Poets), also in his little volume of “Sketches and 
Legends of the West;” and that Mrs. Sprague con¬ 
verted it into an idealistic parable, while Charles 
N. Herried, formerly governor of South Dakota, 
has applied it to history with telling effect in the 
“White Squaw” (Sports Afield, March, 1913). This 
sketch, because of its historical as well as its liter¬ 
ary value, is given in full: 

THE WHITE SQUAW 

We are all to a great extent creatures of circumstances 
and environment. The most cultured and refined members 
of society might have been barbarians, pagans. 

On one of my hunting trips some years ago, I visited 
the Cherry Creek Indian Sub-Agency, located where this 
stream enters the Cheyenne River, about 80 miles northwest 
from Pierre, South Dakota. This section of country has 
been famous as the home of the band of Chief Hump—the 
noted warrior and last Sioux chieftain who sadly surren¬ 
dered to the encroaching white man’s civilization. 


410 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


It was Ration-Day at the Agency. About 1,500 Indians 
belonged to this station and at this time, Indian fashion, most 
of them were camped in their tents and tepees—some on 
the plains and some on the heavily timbered bottom-lands— 
altogether forming an improvised semi-barbarous, pictur¬ 
esque village. 

On the banks of the Cherry Creek and the Cheyenne 
immense quantities of red buffalo berries burdened the 
bushes—forming a most appropriate and artistic setting in 
the luxurious foliage, tinged with nature’s announcement of 
the passing seasons. It was an ideal camping ground, an 
ideal fall day. It was Indian summer, Indian feast day, In¬ 
dian village, Indian country. Smoky eyes, smoky complex¬ 
ions harmonized perfectly with smoky skies. Man and Na¬ 
ture were attuned. The atmosphere was languid, peaceful, 
dreamy, melancholy. To me, with my intense love for the 
wilderness and sympathy for the Red Man, it was a day of 
intense interest and enjoyment. 

The Agent informed me that among the squaws was an 
old “white” woman, who had lived among the Indians since 
infancy. This aroused my curiosity. I asked permission to 
see her and talk to her and a messenger was sent to find her. 
After some time the messenger returned saying he had 
found her, but that she refused to appear at the office of 
the Agent. The Chief of the Indian police, named Straight- 
head—a magnificent looking Indian—was sent out, with or¬ 
ders to bring her to the office. While waiting for develop¬ 
ments I pictured to myself the helpless baby girl, snatched 
by savages from her tomahawked parents. I saw the rest¬ 
less pioneers leaving civilization; the emigrant train, trav¬ 
ersing and trespassing upon the broad domain of the ab¬ 
origines. I saw the wild attack by the red men, made 
ferocious by the resistless rush of the venturesome white 
men. I saw the red and the white both dominated by the 
same powerful motives—the comfort and happiness of his 
family and himself. 

Presently the policeman ushered into the room a de- 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


411 


crepit and most wretched-looking woman, apparently at 
least seventy years old. She shuffled into a corner, crouch¬ 
ing upon the floor, trembling with fear. She understood 
that I was some government official and might take her 
away from her family and friends. I gave her a chair which 
she reluctantly accepted, and through an interpreter tried to 
calm her apprehension. She knew that she was a white wom¬ 
an, that her folks had been killed in a skirmish on the 
plains; that she had been with the Indians since she was 
about one year old. She could not speak a word of Eng¬ 
lish, and, excepting her blue eyes and features, looked like 
the most degraded and miserable savage. It was one of the 
most pitiful sights I have ever seen. She had married an 
Indian and her children and grandchildren were among the 
tribes on the Sioux Reservation. Two years afterwards I 
saw her son, “Blue Eyes" (who had married a three quar¬ 
ter-blood Indian girl) and his four-year-old daughter was a 
remarkably beautiful girl. 

The poor old woman did not show the least desire to 
know anything more about her own people, nor come in con¬ 
tact with white people or civilization. 

Near the agency building was a slaughter house, where 
beef cattle were being slaughtered and the meat parceled 
out to the Indians as part of their regular rations. It 
seemed to be the special prerogative of the squaws to secure 
the meat supplies and with their children they hung around 
this very repulsive establishment. Near by later during the 
meeting, I saw a number of the more voracious eagerly de¬ 
vouring, like choice tid-bits, the cast-off, raw intestines and 
offal, and among them was the gray-haired, ragged, wretch¬ 
ed white squaw. As I viewed the distressing scene I shud¬ 
dered at the horrible tragedy of a wasted human life. Un¬ 
der different circumstances this woman now feasting on 
refuse with savage satisfaction, might have graced the ban¬ 
quet room of the White House. 




♦ 



0* W. COURSEY 

Member International Order of Bookfellows 

Biographical —Born, Forreston, Ogle County, Illinois, 
April 10, 1873. Removed to Dakota, 1883. Settled in Beadle 
county. Educated in public schools of Illinois, rural schools 
of Dakota Territory, Dakota Central Normal School, and 
Dakota Wesleyan University. Taught school eight years. 
Superintendent Davison county (S. D.) schools four years. 
Soldiered Spanish-American War (Philippine Islands). Mar¬ 
ried Julia Nolt, Red Stone, S. D., October 21, 1896. Three 
sons. 

AUTHOR OF: 

1903—History and Geography of the P. I. 

1905—School Law Digest. 

1913— Who’s Who in South Dakota (Vol. I.) 

1914— Woman with a Stone Heart. 

1914—Philippines and Filipinos. 

1914—Biography of General Beadle. 

1914— Ethical Selections. 

1915— Who’s Who in South Dakota (Vol II.) 

1915— Biography of Senator Kittredge. 

1916— Literature of South Dakota. 

1917— Winning Orations. 

1919— Just a Friend. 

1920— Who’s Who in South Dakota (Vol. III.) 

1922—Three Jewish Martyrs. 






O. W. COURSEY 


In addition to the fourteen volumes which 0. 
W. Coursey has written and compiled to date (1922) 
he is also the author of several short stories which 
have been published and republished by American 
periodicals. These include “Two Tragedies in One,” 
“Red Hair Triumphant,” “A Mother’s Love Re¬ 
warded,” “Give and Take,” and several others. 

One descriptive paragraph; a compound biog¬ 
raphical narrative, entitled “Underneath the South¬ 
ern Cross;” and two short Biblical sketches—“Twi¬ 
light on the Cross,” and “The Harmony of Devo¬ 
tion”—, are given to illustrate his style: 

Custer Sanatorium 

(From Vol III (Page 243) “Who’s Who in South Dakota.") 

Near the center of the aged Black Hills—six miles south 
of Custer, and 5300 feet above the level of the sea—where 
the star-spangled arches of the skies appear to rest upon 
the stone-capped summits of the Hills, where the rocky ledges 
are fringed with towering pines, where a large mountain 
spring emits its flow of ceaseless nectar, where Beaver Creek 
babbles along and steals its zigzag way between the rudged 
Hills to the old Cheyenne, where a profusion of wild-flowers 
lift their tiny blossoms above the crevices in the rocks to 
pay homage to their Maker, where the sweet ozone from 
quakenasp and birch spreads its health-giving properties 
among the rustling trees, where sunlit days in endless num¬ 
bers make life a dream of joy, where Nature resolves itself 
into a reverie and God stands looking on, the legislature of 
South Dakota, in 1909, located a Sanatorium for the care of 
Tuberculosis patients. 



“Here are the skies all burnished brightly; 

Here is the spent earth all reborn; 

Here are the tired limbs springing lightly 
To face the sun and share with the mom 
In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn ” 
UNDERNEATH THE SOUTHERN CROSS 

(From the Epworth Herald, Chicago.) 

When the Milwaukee railroad was built from Mitchell 
to Aberdeen, during’ the summer of 1883, the village of Al¬ 
pena, in northwestern Jerauld county, on this line of railroad, 
was blocked out on a low elevation of ground between two 
sloughs. 

On opposite sides of one of its streets, with only the 
street and a small piece of property intervening, are two 
old homes in which two neighbor boys grew to manhood. 
Their names are Matthew Smith and Welcome Wood. 

The sires of these two boys were A. F. Smith and D. H. 
Wood. Smith ran a general store; Wood conducted a hard¬ 
ware store. Both were model citizens. Smith was a leader 
in the local Methodist church; Wood was a leader in the 
local Presbyterian church. The two boys were, therefore, 
brought up in ideal religious homes. Neither of them exer¬ 
cised any choice in his denominationalism. Smith was 
reared in a Methodist home, and he became a Methodist; 
Wood was reared in a Presbyterian home and he became a 
Presbyterian. 

Smith completed three years of high school work at Alpena 
(all the school afforded) and then took one year of academic 






PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


415 


and four years of college work at Dakota Wesleyan, and was 
graduated from a Methodist institution with his A. B. de¬ 
gree. Wood finished his eighth grade at Alpena, and then 
did four years of academic and four years of collegiate 
work at Huron college, and was graduated from a Pres¬ 
byterian school with his A. B. degree. 

After finishing his college course, Smith went back 
home and taught for one year in the high school at Alpena. 
Wood, after graduation, preached for two years at Interior, 
in the Bad Lands. Then, each of them decided upon in¬ 
creased preparation for life and a change of occupation. 
Smith attended Columbia university for one year and took 
his Master’s degree. Wood attended Leland Stanford for 
four years where he took a complete course in medicine. 
Then he served for one year as house physician in a San 
Francisco hospital. Smith, meantime, taught one year in 
the Huron and two years in the Belle Fourche high schools. 
Both of them decided to do foreign missionary work in South 
America,—Smith as a Methodist, Wood as a Presbyterian— 
both as Christian gentlemen. 

Smith went to Callao, Peru, as director of the English 
high school at that place for three years—1917-’20. Wood 
went to Ponte Nova, Brazil, as medical director of the Ameri¬ 
can hospital at that place for five years. Before entering upon 
his work, he was forced to spend a year at Bahia, Brazil, 
studying Portuguese, and to pass a medical examination in 
that language. 

While in South America Professor Matthew Smith met 
and married Miss Loretta Sage, of Grand Rapids, Michigan, 
who was engaged in foreign-mission work at Lima, Peru. 
Before starting for South America Dr. Welcome Wood mar¬ 
ried Miss Grace Brown, of Parker, South Dakota. Just be¬ 
fore he started home, in 1921, on a year’s furlough, Mrs. 
Wood was taken suddenly ill and died. He was obliged to 
bury her inland “between the bleak and barren peaks” of 
Brazil, and leave her lie in her chosen field of work. 

In 1920, Smith was given a year’s leave of absence to 


416 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


return to the United States and attend Chicago University, 
where he specialized in Religious education. He was then 
assigned to the directorship of the Mexican Methodist In¬ 
stitute at Puebla, Mexico. In 1921, Wood was given a year’s 
leave of absence to return to the States to visit his mother, 
at Long Beach, Calif., and to do special work in the hospitals 
of San Francisco. In 1922, he went to England to specialize 
for three months in the study of tropical diseases; and 
from there he returned to his former field of work in Bra¬ 
zil. 

While they were absent in South America, each of their 
fathers died; the elder Smith is buried at Alpena; the elder 
Wood, at Wessington Springs,—sixteen miles away. 

Alpena has sent out some good talent into the busy 
world during the past quarter of a century, but none of 
them have made better records than Professor Smith and 
Dr. Wood. These two young men demonstrate what boys 
can do when they lead a Spirit-filled life. Christ enthroned 
in the life of a boy will make a man of him. Satan en¬ 
throned in the life of a boy will unmake the man that is 
in him. These two boys gave Christ the right of way in 
their lives. He called them to service underneath the 
Southern Cross. They both responded. We have the re¬ 
sults before us. 

TWILIGHT ON THE CROSS 

(From The Mitchell Daily Republican—Easter Edition—1922.) 

Twilight was setting over Judea. A gaunt form hang¬ 
ing on a cross between two thieves was gradually becoming 
silenced by death. A woman of sorrows was kneeling at his 
feet, weeping. She was no longer HIS mother, for he had 
just given her to a by-stander named John. 

Who was the distinguished gentleman who had ridden 
into Jerusalem, six days before, with the “multitude that 
went before him. and that followed, saying: ‘Hosanna to the 
son of David?’ ” 

Who was this pious Jew, who, when arrested the night 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 


417 


before, had said to his captors: “Thinkest thou that I can¬ 
not beseech my Father, and he shall even now send me more 
than twelve legions of angels ?” 

Who was this forgiving evangel that prayed from the 
top of the cross for his enemies who were crucifying him: 
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do?” 

Who was this quiet traveler whose execution so stirred 
the world that suckling babes 2000 years afterward are still 
told of his greatness, under a hundred different flags? 

Even the multitudes that were present asked: “Who is 
this?” Only to be told by others: “This is the prophet, Jesus, 
from Nazareth of Galilee.” 

Three years before, reclining in the arms of his second 
cousin, John the Baptist, as his head came above the favored 
waters of the Jordan, in the moment of his baptism, he had 
seen the heavens open and the spirit of God descend upon 
him like a dove, saying: “This is my beloved son in whom 
I am well pleased.” 

After his baptism, he had fasted forty days and nights 
on Mt. Quarantania, near Jericho, while God permitted the 
devil to put all kinds of tempting questions to him, to see 
if his faith were secure enough to go ahead with his part of 
the divine drama for the redemption of the race. 

For three years, he had wandered up and down the 
Judean valleys, healing and preaching, with no scrip, with 
no place to lay his weary head, no place to die, and none in 
which to be buried. His only scrip was free-will offerings; 
his home—the dells. His cross was supplied by his enemies 
and his tomb was a gift from a pious friend. 

Finally, they crucified him, and with him two malefac¬ 
tors. He was born among cattle and died between thieves. 
As twilight stole over his cross, the multitude dispersed 
to their homes. Then Nicodemus embalmed his body and 
sealed it in Joseph’s unused tomb. 

But, after three days, he rose from the dead; and forty 
days later he went to make his home with God, after calmly 
asking: “What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole 


418 


LITERATURE OF SOUTH DAKOTA 


world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in 
exchange for his soul?” 

He left us two saintly rules of conduct—the Golden 
Rule and the Eleventh Commandment. Obedience to these 
by everybody would close all our jails and penitentiaries, 
end our courts, make home a heaven, earth an Eden, and 
the Universe the model place of the Ages in which to live. 

THE HARMONY OF DEVOTION 

(Christmas Greetings, 1918.) 

What a Harmony is produced in a Life of pure Devo¬ 
tion! The Devotion of Jesus to his Divine Mission is the 
Poetry of the Universe. The Rhythm of his mission was 
the result of his Devotion. 

He entered life as the Child of Mystery in a little 
Bethlehem Manger. Beginning it in the soft Idyl of a con¬ 
scious dream, he rose to a mighty Diapason of power in the 
Sermon on the Mount. 

Descending into the peaceful waters of the Jordan, he 
ordained the First great Sacrament of the Church—Bap¬ 
tism. Assembled in an upper room with his Twelve Apos¬ 
tles, he instituted the Second Sacrament—the Lord’s Sup¬ 
per. 

Delivered by Pilate to the rabbling multitude, he trudged 
from the Praetorium along the Via Dolorosa to the top of the 
Cross, tasted the Vinegar of Stealth and drank the Gall of 
Death. 

Not once did he doubt his Mission; not once did he falter 
in the execution of his Trust. 

His bruised body was placed in Joseph’s virgin tomb, 
where, after three days, he broke the shackles of Death 
and came forth again. Forty days later God caught him 
up from the Brow of Olivet, in a Whirlwind of Joy. 

His Devotion had been made complete. The Harmony 
of it echoes adown the years. Its Poetry inspires the human 
soul to acclaim with Isaiah: 


PROSE AND PROSE WRITERS 419 

“Unto us a Child is bom. 

Unto us a Son is given, and the 

Government shall be upon his shoulder, and his 

Name shall be called: 

Wonderful, Counsellor, 

The Mighty God, 

The Everlasting Father, 

The Prince of Peaces 

His Devotion inspired the Classic Poetry of the Nations, 
De Vinci’s “Last Supper” and Raphael’s “Transfiguration;” 
thousands of Statues that adorn the Art Galleries of the 
World, Handel’s “Messiah,” and Haydn’s “Imperial Mass”; 
and the Harmony of it still lives 


IN THE HEARTS OF MEN. 













































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